To Be A Flyman
by Madam Mimm
Summary: My very first A.U., please be kind.  On the 7th of February, 1928, Gabriel buys a theatre. His brother Castiel gets roped into helping keep it afloat, and he meets several people who change his life. In full disclosure, Dean/Cas, Sam/Gabe Now Finished!
1. Chapter 1

_February 7__th__, 1928_

Castiel Hollman was of religious parentage, and it was for such reason that, when he had been born on a Thursday, his parents named him as they did. He was not the first child of the rather large Hollman family to be born on a Thursday; this was a title which in fact belonged to his brother, some three years older than him. However, this older brother was born with a mop of stunning blonde curls, and an irritating tendency to shriek in a way that the baptising minister claimed "would cause the walls of Jericho to tumble", and so, at the last minute, the child's name was changed to Gabriel. His hair had darkened and straightened over time, now a lightish brown, but he had managed to retain his boundless energy, and his ability to be incredibly loud and annoying at times when you really wish he wouldn't e, as Castiel could bear witness.

"Open up, open up open up open up, open up open up open up, open up open up open up, open up open up open up..."

"Gabriel." Castiel sighed, still pulling his robe around him as he opened his apartment door. Gabriel, dressed in a white shirt, double-breasted jacket and stylishly wide trousers, swept past him and made a bee-line for the kitchen.

"Dare I ask why you're still in your day dress at three in the morning?"

"I've been busy." Gabriel called back to him, his mouth already full of something he had stolen from the fridge.

As with many wealthy families in the year 1928, the Hollman family were wealthy enough to have separated across America, each in pursuit of their own particular "American Dream". Castiel (the youngest brother still living) had decided not to stray too far from the family home as he wasn't entirely sure what his dream was yet. At this particular moment, it was to get Gabriel out of his apartment and get to sleep.

Gabriel, comparatively, went through at least three dreams a month, frittering away any money he came into, yet somehow managing to stay rich enough not to work. Resigned to his fate of hearing what his brother's latest ridiculous scheme was, Castiel dragged his feet through to the kitchen. Gabriel was eating a honey sandwich, sitting on the table and grinning at his brother, possibly because he knew his brother just wanted to sleep.

"You remember when I went to Europe last month?"

Castiel blinked, sighed, and sat awkwardly in the chair next to him.

"Yes."

"You remember how I came back and was once again utterly enthralled with the art of the theatre?"

Castiel wasn't sure he wanted to hear where this was going.

"Yes..."

"And you remember how I was owed a rather costly sum of money after that incident last year with the patent office?"

"You mean the one where they bribed you to give up all claim to that horrid drink you invented?"

"That's the ticket."

"Then, sadly, yes."

"Well... now, brother, I want you to be prepared for this... this is a revelation so earth-shattering, so very wondrous, that our name-sake angels may dance from the heavens and..."

"You bought a theatre, didn't you?"

There was a brief silence.

"Must you always spoil my fun?"

"Gabriel, do you know anything about the management of theatre?"

"What's to know? Put on plays, sell tickets, and use the money to put on more plays!"

Castiel sighed, deciding he had not had sufficient sleep to deal with such a conversation.

"You know you'll only be bored with the whole thing by next week."

"No I won't. I swear it, this time; I'm in it for keeps!"

"Yes, well, even if you are still interested in a month's time, I can guarantee the whole thing will be a fiasco. Please, Gabriel, just sell it while you're not..."

"Never! "In a month's time" indeed. In a month's time, my theatre shall be the most profitable establishment in all the state!"

_March 7__th__, 1928_

"Gabriel. Good morning."

"Oh, don't be so smug. I need your help."

_March 8__th__, 1928_

During Castiel's childhood, he had shown a profound talent in the area of art, particularly architectural design. It was this that Gabriel had commandeered his Saturday afternoon to get at; Gabriel was convinced the reason his theatre had done so poorly over the last month was that it had little to offer over the competition. So he was adamant to call in all the favours he could, and even owe other people, to pull off something so spectacular that everyone would flock to it.

He had some of the best people around working on costumes and effects, he had hired one of the best stage management teams around, and he wanted Castiel to design the scenery. If budget allowed, he suggested renovating the theatre itself a little.

Castiel had, of course, refused.

But there was one thing Gabriel had counted to their advantage, which Castiel could not deny.

Gabriel had an odd power over people.

That was how he could choose any worker he wanted, regardless of their ego or demands, and how he could convince anyone to do his bidding. He had something of the hypnotist about him.

Castiel silently cursed his smooth-talking sibling as he stared up at the less than pristine front to the "C.P. Theatre", the sign looking possibly the newest and most expensive part of it.

"Aren't theatres usually named after the street they're on, or the person who owns them?"

"Sure." Gabriel grinned, holding a paper bag of sweets he had insisted they purchase before they reach the theatre. "If you want to be like any other Mrs Grundy. I thought it would be something different."

"But why is it called "C.P"?"

"Because it's the Cat's Pyjamas."

Castiel thought for a moment, went to respond to this, realised he wasn't sure exactly how to, and decided he wouldn't. He sighed, and gripped his sketchbook and pencil tin a little tighter.

"Fine, let's pipe down get this done with."

"Don't be such a pill." Gabriel grinned, rolling the sugary fruit gums around his mouth. "You'll see, it's copacetic."

When they made it into the building, Castiel gasped. It was clean, and shabby, the gold leaf faded, the red velvet curtains moth-eaten, and most of the stage boards were probably mouldy, but it was a space.

The proscenium stage was large enough to hold a crowd of at least thirty, or twenty it they needed room to dance. The chairs raked in elegant semi-circles away from the slight protrusion, allowing actors a little extra space to act. The Boxes were beautiful, the Circle was placed so that even those at the back had a decent view, and the theatre as a whole could comfortably seat two hundred. The reception area had faced the same age and degradation as the auditorium, but the backstage areas were near immaculate; bare but functional, with plenty of space and access to the fly galleries above the stage.

"It's..." Castiel didn't want to admit it, but he was excited. He actually wanted to make this building his own, he wanted to make it beautiful. "It's actually promising."

"Oh, it's the real McCoy." Gabriel grinned, sitting on the stage as he waited for Castiel to finish exploring every crevice of the building. "So what do you say? Are you going to be a wet blanket, or are you going to help your charming older brother out?"

Castiel paused.

_Damn. Damn and blast. He knows I want the job._

"Alright, fine. I'll do it."

Gabriel here made such a noise of joy that the chronicler cannot honestly attempt to spell it, suffice to say it was an odd exclamation, and a loud one, and followed by him jabbering excitedly to Castiel, without noticing whether or not Castiel was listening.

"Cas, you are a gentleman! A true class act! You're the berries! The bee's knees! The cat's meow! The cat's pyjamas! The cat's meowing pyjamas, Castiel, that's what you are! Now listen, in terms of budget, I'm not exactly sure how much we can give to design, what with all the workers needing wages and so on, so you might have to spot a little out of your own account, but you know..."

Castiel had since stopped listening. He was carefully sketching out the auditorium, ideas already floating around his head, excitement sparking in his blood.


	2. Chapter 2

**A.N.: The musical Gabriel intends to stage, which will be referred to in this chapter and others, is "Whoopee", a musical that actually exists and was first staged in December of 1928 on Broadway. I'm taking a few liberties with history, and claiming that Gabriel premiered it first. This is fictitious, obviously.**

_March 10__th__, 1928_

"Here you go." Gabriel thrust the loosely bound manuscript at Castiel, who blinked att it for a few seconds, before catching his brother's eye.

"And I suppose you want breakfast too?"

"Breakfast? Is it breakfast time already?" Gabriel seemed genuinely surprised, before walking past his brother and stealing his toast. Castiel suppressed the urge to strangle his brother, and began to leaf through the manuscript.

"Whoopee, a musical comedy based on Owen Davis's "The Nervous Wreck"... What's it about?"

"The usual." Gabriel shrugged as he layered raspberry jam onto his stolen toast. "Love, mistaken identity, hypochondria, singing..."

"Hypochondria?"

"Just read it." He shot Castiel a withering look, before wiping jam from his fingers with a napkin. "The writer's basically unknown; I paid him next to nothing, but let him keep the rights should someone else make a better offer. I've got a carpenter, a director, and a head of costume and makeup. Design me a set before we all meet, and you'll be fine."

"Right." He dropped the manuscript on the table and took a slice of toast for himself, before Gabriel claimed the lot for his own. "When's the meeting?"

"The 12th."

Castiel paused.

"That's two days away."

"Hum... yes, I suppose it is..."

Castiel (and what was left of his rapidly fraying patience) stepped towards Gabriel, a very unimpressed look on his weary features.

"You expect me to read a manuscript and come up with a final, definite set design in two days? When I'm doing this solely as a favour to you and I've never had the blindest experience in this field?"

"Um... Well." Gabriel grinned, pulling himself up to his full, confident height.

"_It would be so easy to throttle him,"_ Castiel thought. "_Gabriel may be older, and quicker, but he's short, and nowhere near as strong."_

"Oh, my, look at that!" Gabriel looked at the clock on the wall, laughing. "I really must be..."

And with that, he ran from the room, devoid of all grace but still with his life. Castiel sat at the table, quietly seething. He flicked through the manuscript, deciding he would just have to get as much work done as he could, and feeling fairly certain that scattered as they were across the states of America, his siblings were suddenly feeling very happy that they'd left town when they did.

"_Lucky saps."_

_March 12__th__, 1928_

They had not met in the C.P., as Gabriel was still having it cleaned out and renovated. Instead, the meeting had been set for Gabriel's townhouse, which suited Castiel fine. While there were many aspects of his brother's life that Castiel disagree with, or at the very least, was made uncomfortable by, he could not deny that the Townhouse was a thing of beauty.

A two-floor house above a small bakery, it had everything a person could want from a house, was beautifully decorated, and came with the added bonus of Mr. Jerrard, the baker, delivering any unsold baked goods to the house each day as per Gabriel's rent agreement. He had agreed to pay them one and a half times what the rent was worth each month, on the proviso that during his stays there, he gets any unwanted baked goods. The man knew a scheme when he saw one; Castiel had to admit that the bakery had possibly some of the finest cakes he'd ever tasted. When he arrived at Gabriel's townhouse, however, Castiel lost all his appetite, and indeed most of his confidence.

"You _are_ joking, Mr. Hollman, aren't you?" The pugnacious British man crossed his legs and pressed a hand to his temples. "I ask merely for the reassurance that I won't be expected to work with dunderheads."

"First off, call me Gabriel." Gabriel stood by the fireplace, sharing a brief "hang in there" smile with his brother. "Mr. Crowley, I'm not one for formalities."

"Well that much is obvious." Mr Crowley, the director Gabriel had hired, shot another withering glare at Castiel. "This man clearly knows nothing about set design."

"You haven't even seen my designs!" Castiel flared, throwing his sketchbook down on the coffee table in frustration.

"I don't need to see your sketches to know you haven't a clue." Crowley growled, leaning across to stare Castiel in the eye. "You haven't made a model. How am I expected to have any idea of how my actors can move through the space if I don't have a model? Honestly, Mr. Hollman, I don't see..."

"No you don't, and if you don't start calling me Gabriel, you won't see your paycheck either." Gabriel, who had chosen to remain standing for the negotiations, stared down the angry director, who decided to back off.

"Castiel had floor plans and side elevated diagrams for you. While they may not be as useful as a three dimensional model, they will be perfectly serviceable for now. Admittedly, some of the blame lies with me..."

"All of it lies with you; you gave me two days to come up with a design..."

"But..." Gabriel continued, a smirk creeping onto his face as he talked, relishing in the sound of his own voice, "we must work together as a team, and not shift blame from person to person. Now, are there any other concerns?"

"No, none at all." Crowley forced a sarcastic smile across his features. "But I'll need a model soon."

"And I'm sure you'll get one." Gabriel gave an equally insincere smile back. "Anyone else?"

"How much?"

The voice was gravelly, and shocked Castiel a little, as he had forgotten the fourth man was present. He had been introduced at the start of the meaning as "Mr Dean Winchester, the carpenter and production manager". He had since said little to nothing, sitting in a chair between Castiel and Crowley, and generally being overlooked.

"_Which,"_ Castiel thought,_ "given the man's size, was a neat trick if you could do it."_

"Excuse you, you wonderfully churlish young man?"

"How much did you say we had to build this, budget-wise?"

Cas realised that Dean had somehow taken the sketchbook without any of them noticing, and was looking through it attentively, as if hoping to memorise the pages.

"That depends." Gabriel grinned wickedly. "How much do you think it would cost?"

"Looking at it... depending what we can salvage from the flats that are still in storage at the theatre..." His eyes flicked from Gabriel's to the pages of the book, sharp and keen. Castiel felt peculiar, having this man look through his sketches, although he honestly couldn't say why; he had to suppress the compulsion to snatch the book back, make his apologies and leave.

"At most, I'd say six hundred dollars for the set. I could possibly get it down to about five hundred, but after that you start cutting corners. Add in the salaries and other running costs, you're looking at nearly eight hundred."

"Perfect." Gabriel strode over to the bookshelf and retrieved a decanter full of something alcoholic and potent-looking. "I'm sure we'll have some left to redesign the building."

"And, these designs..." Dean turned his eyes on Castiel, who instantly felt awkward. "I take it from your sketches that the flats will be moving between scenes?"

"Yes." Castiel was now very glad he had looked up the professional terms of the theatre, so he wouldn't make a complete dunce of himself. "The larger backdrops will be flown in and out, as well as some of the foreground flats. The others can be trucked."

"To allow more space for the dance scenes, correct?" Dean's eyes flickered from Castiel's, towards Crowley, before returning to the hard stare. Castiel nodded, picking up on the hint.

"Oh, uh... yes. It means they can be moved to give the actors more space. And... um... well, I think the designs speak for themselves."

Crowley shot Castiel a nasty glare before snatching the sketchbook from Dean and leafing through it, his scowl slowly shifting to a look of umbrage as he realised he couldn't legitimately be angry with Castiel; the designs were perfectly passable.

"Well, if we've all made our decisions." Crowley collected his hat and coat from the stand and left, rushing his goodbyes as Gabriel made incredibly insincere attempts to invite him to stay longer.

"Oh rats." He mumbled, into the glass he had poured from the decanter. "Looks like we'll have to share this out between us..."

"Little early to be hitting the hooch, isn't it?" The intense stare finally flicked away from Castiel, and had a turn at Gabriel instead. Gabriel, lacking in Castiel's meekness and modesty, stared blankly back, an eyebrow arched in incredulity.

"Hooch? I'm sure I don't know what you mean." He swirled the contents of his glass. "That's a term that refers to that nasty, illegal alcohol stuff, isn't it? Disgusting; I'll have no part of that. And besides, this is quality scotch that's been around much longer than any silly law."

"Really?" A smile crept onto Dean's face as he seemed to sum up Gabriel. "Well, maybe just one for the road."

"Of course. Castiel?"

"No, thank you, I really should be going." Castiel stood, said his goodbyes and left, happy to be outside again. Something about that man unsettled him greatly.

Dean, that is, not Gabriel.

There were many things about Gabriel that unsettled Cas, but he knew that most of the time it was because he might end up getting involved in something foolish, illegal or both.

But Dean... the man's very presence unsettled him; he had something so very different in his nature. It wasn't a bad thing, but Castiel felt the same excitement and intoxication he imagined others had in a speakeasy or at a roulette wheel. He wasn't sure he liked it.


	3. Chapter 3

_March 16__th__, 1928_

Over the next few days, Castiel had managed to make two model boxes. His hands were fresh with cuts from where the craft knife had slipped, and he was pretty sure he would never be able to rid he rancid smell of glue from his apartment, but it was done.

The first model box had been delivered to Crowley, but only after Castiel had been able to convince Gabriel to do it for him. Castiel had always considered himself a fairly accepting person, but he wanted as little as possible to do with that man. Gabriel, conversely, found some sick pleasure in irritating the man, and Crowley seemed to enjoy arguing back... they were evidently two sides of the same coin, and Castiel felt it wasn't his business to pry, as long as it meant Crowley stayed away from him.

The second model box needed to be delivered to the carpenter, Dean Winchester. Castiel had tried to get Gabriel to deliver that one too, but Gabriel had promptly declined, pointing out that he'd be damned if he'd spend all day traipsing form one side of town to the other delivering doll houses.

Castiel had pointed out that they weren't doll houses, they were model boxes, and they had taken him a long time to make so could he please treat them with respect.

Gabriel (who, in fairness, had been woken a good few hours earlier than he usually was, and so was unprepared for this sort of conversation) gave Castiel a few suggestions as to where he could stick his model boxes, along with a percentage of how much of a damn he gave, and then issued an ultimatum.

He would deliver one model box, and only one, and if Castiel didn't leave the townhouse and deliver the other within the minute, he would personally make sure that none of the Jerrard's baked goods would ever go his way again.

Castiel made a vain attempt to argue back, but knew he had lost. And so it was that, after much feet-dragging and awkwardness, he found himself at the door of one Dean Winchester.

Castiel knocked, and then found himself having to fight off the urge to leave quickly, while he had the chance. Dean didn't scare him... not exactly. He was just very aware of that uncomfortably intense feeling he had experienced the last time they met, and he wasn't happy to repeat that experience.

"_No."_ He mentally shook himself, standing up straight. _"You're being silly. You're two grown men, and you have to be professional. Now stop."_

The house was a small one, but quaint. It was an old cabin, mostly of wood and stone, on the outskirts of town. The view, Castiel had to admit, was spectacular; it swept over the hillsides on the horizon and down into the gentle slope of the city in such a way that you felt as if you were looking down on the world from above. It would be reason enough to live so far from any amenities. There was a small yard, which was neat but mostly untended, and a small porch complete with seating area. It was basic, and old fashioned, but comfortable.

What was not comfortable was the amount of time he had spent waiting at the door.

Castiel cleared his throat and knocked again, trying to fight off the part of his mind which was still lobbying for the "turn tail and run" stratagem. He was about to give up and do so, when the door opened to reveal a man who was so tall he had to duck to do so. Brown hair swept off of his face, wearing a candy-striped shirt and braces, there was something of a resemblance to Dean Winchester, but this was most definitely not he.

"Oh... sorry, I didn't hear anyone knocking..."

"That's alright." Castiel dragged his mind back kicking and screaming to the present; in almost running away, he had apparently forgotten how to hold a conversation. "Is... um... I'm looking for a Mr Winchester?"

"That's... me..." The tall man was awkward, and eyeing Castiel suspiciously.

"Oh... well... No. No, Mr Dean Winchester?"

"Oh!" The tall man laughed, seeming quite relieved. "You must be someone to do with the theatre?"

"Yes!" Glad to have the conversation in a more reassuring area, Castiel remembered his manners and extended his hand. "Hollman. Castiel Hollman."

"Sam Winchester." Sam shook the proffered hand. "Sorry, I'd stay and talk, but I'm on my way to work. If you just go around the side of the house there, Dean's in the back yard."

"Oh... thank you."

Sam smiled again and left, leaving Castiel with little other option than to wander around through the wide gate to the back yard. Music drifted over; a long, slow moan of music, accompanied by a vocalist Castiel had never heard before. The voice was powerful, and seemed to swim in his brain. He approached the gleaming frame of a black roadster, from underneath which two legs protruded, along with a voice, attempting to accompany the powerful woman on the radio.

Castiel cleared his throat, attempting to draw attention to himself.

"Sammy? Is that you?" The voice came from under the car.

"Uh, no, it's Hollman. Uh, Castiel. The... set designer?"

"Oh, good morning... give me a moment..." Dean pushed himself from under the car, and Castiel found himself very uncomfortable to note that he wasn't wearing a shirt.

"Sorry, if I'd have known you were coming I'd have held back from trying to fix this thing."

"That's fine." Castiel stared at the car while Dean grabbed a cheesecloth shirt from the table the radio sat on. He wanted to make some sort of intelligent conversation, but he knew nothing about cars, so he stared at the radio instead. "Um, who's singing?"

Dean pulled the shirt over his head, and stared incredulously at Castiel.

"It's Bessie Smith. How on earth can you fail to recognise Bessie Smith?"

"Um..." Castiel stared at the ground instead. "I've never really been much for music."

"And how... Well, anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Oh, yes." He sheepishly handed over the model box, feeling a shiver as it was scrutinised with the same intense expression as the sketchbook had been. "It's... just a rough, you know, I've never made them before, I can make another, if it's not enough..."

"It's fine." Dean smiled up at him, resting the model on the hood of the roadster and crouching down so he was on eye level with it. "Just swell... it shouldn't be too difficult to make, either. I'll get some guys together, we can get all of these made and painted in a week or two. Has Mr. Crowley seen this yet?"

"Gabriel's delivering one to him now... or he should be." Castiel smiled. For some reason, he was flooded with relief when Dean had voiced his approval.

"Alright. Well, I guess it's all fine. Do you want to come in for a drink or something?"

"Um... no, I should probably go and make sure Gabriel's actually delivered it for me... he's not at his best in the mornings."

"If you're sure. But, can I give you some advice?"

"Of course."

"I've worked with Crowley before." He wiped his oily hands on his shirt, leaning against the roadster. "He seems hard-boiled at first, but that's just his attitude. If you let him know you won't be a pushover, he'll back down."

Castiel paused for a moment, wondering if he could deny the idea that he was scared of Crowley.

"_What a ludicrous, ridiculous and utterly true idea. No,"_ he thought, "_it wouldn't work. He'd never believe me after that disastrous meeting and... he's giving me that look again..."_

It was a look that seemed to be summing him up and judging him, but at the same time providing with a gentle nudge towards the truth; a semi-parental expression of benevolent superiority.

"Thank you."

"And, hey, did you meet Sam?"

"Yes. Is he your brother?"

"Yeah, and no good at it. Can you tell Gabriel I've found him an Assistant Stage Manager? And ask him when he's planning to set the get-in date."

"I will."

"You don't know what half those words mean, do you?"

"Um... vaguely."

Dean chuckled, and turned to tune the radio, glancing over his shoulder.

"Keep reading, bookworm, you'll get there."

Castiel said his goodbyes and left, feeling simultaneously chided and elated, and as a result of this, both emotions blurred into an overwhelming confusion. He decided the best way to deal with this would be to buy a cake from Jerrard's bakery and yell at Gabriel.

He considered briefly throwing the cake at Gabriel, but that seemed like the sort of thing his strangely humoured brother would enjoy, and then he also wouldn't be able to eat the cake.

_April 1__st__, 1928_

A "Get-In", in theatrical terms, is when everyone takes all of the equipment (set, props, lights, costumes and pretty much everything except the actors) needed for a show, and, simply put, gets it into place.

The chronicler notes with a weary sigh that of course, when Gabriel was asked for a date for the Get-In, he thought about the amount of people needed, the amount of jobs to do, and the amount of mischief that could be created as a result of the first two, and instantaneously decided that the first of April would be a fine date.

Consequently, all the stage hands and backstage workers they could find were rushing around the theatre, trying not to collide with the builders still renovating the reception and seating, trying not to break or damage any of the various items that were being carried in and out, and trying most desperately to avoid Gabriel.

Castiel was overseeing the care of the set flats, and helping the stage hands set the relevant pieces to the fly bars. Or rather, he had been, and now he was eating lunch. He sat in the newly re-upholstered green velvet stalls, looking up as a few people continued working. Most had disappeared to get food, or smoke, or otherwise entertain themselves. A voice came from somewhere above the stage.

"Hey, any hands free?"

Castiel finished his sandwich and walked onto the stage, since everyone else seemed to be ignoring the source of the voice.

"I'm here."

"Huh... Well, you'll do, I suppose. Know anything about Flying systems?"

Castiel looked up above the stage, and could see a vague shadow which he recognised as Dean, sat on the fly gallery above him.

"A little..."

"Well get up the ladder, we'll see how much of that you can put to use."

Castiel nodded and fumbled his way up the ladder to the fly gallery, cursing. He'd managed to avoid Dean all day, just by way of having a reputation as the fairly useless new blood and therefore someone to be left out of the decision-making process.

The fly gallery was dusty and dark, with cobwebs hanging over everything, made visible by being thick with chunks of plaster and dirt.

"It's a mess, I know." Dean's voice drifted through the half light, as Castiel's eyes adjusted to the darkness. "I'll probably get around to cleaning it up before rehearsals start. It's a good space."

Castiel looked around at the space, noting the large hemp ropes that ran up the wall, and the rather meagre-looking railing that separated him from a sizeable plummet onto the stage.

"So go on then. Figure it out." Dean grinned, watching Castiel intently. "How does it work?"

"Well... the rope system relies on sheer force. The scenic flats are attached to those bars..." He pointed up to the grid, where the flats now hung from large metal poles. "And the bars are attached to lift lines, which run over our heads and back down to this deck, where they're tied off. If something needs to be on stage, you undo the rope and lower it in, and if it needs to be taken up again, you pull it back."

"Not bad." Dean smirked. "Need a little work on the vocabulary, but you're about right." Dean clapped him on the shoulder as he moved past, towards the line of ropes that were tied off around pegs in big figure-eight knots.

"You don't fly things "up and down"; you fly them "out and in". And you don't "tie" them, you "pin" them. And that's where I need your help."

Castiel looked around, apprehensive. This all seemed very technical, and he had never been one for technical work.

"Don't worry, you sap, you look strong enough." Dean motioned Cas over to the pin deck, and pointed to one of the pegs. It wasn't neatly tied off like the others; the rope was full of smaller knots, and doubled back on itself.

"Now, that is an accident waiting to happen. I need to untie it, check it's all secure, and then re-pin it. And I need you to hold the rope so the bar won't fall."

Castiel looked at the rough stretch of rope, and quickly estimated how poorly he would do at that job.

"Why not just lower the bar down to the stage?"

"Can't lower it when the rope's all balled up like that; it could get caught in the feed."

Castiel must have betrayed his discomfort in his facial expression. Dean rolled his eyes and grabbed the rope above Castiel's head.

"Fine, you untie the knots, and I'll hold the rope." So saying, he grasped the rope with both hands, prepared. "Go on."

Castiel, feeling like this was his first chance all day to show that he wasn't completely useless, began untying the rope, and smoothing it out. It took him a while, and he had to grip the rope well, so that Dean wasn't carrying all of the weight of the massive death-trap pole that he was trying very hard not to think about.

"Ok, now first off, tie the end of the rope around the pin, and tie it tight, so it won't come loose."

Castiel did as he was told, and quickly wound the rope in a figure eight around the pin. When he was about half way, Dean stopped him again.

"Tie it off around the other peg, you see? That's in case the flyman drops the rope... safety knot."

Castiel nodded, and did as instructed, before quickly pinning the rest of it, until Dean wasn't holding the weight any more. Dean let out an appreciative sigh, before checking Castiel's work.

"Well... it'll do for now."

Castiel nodded sheepishly, made his excuses and climbed back down the ladder. He hadn't been expecting high praise or anything, but he was sure he'd detected a bit of a sneer to Dean's voice...

"Hey, brother." Gabriel sighed, stepping out of the wings and making Castiel jump. He had a bad habit of appearing like that. "This has been the worst April Fool's day ever. Its gone noon and I've barely got anyone. Well... apart from the tall guy in the shirtsleeves, he's hilarious." He paused for a moment, scrutinising Castiel's glum expression.

"What's eating you?"

"Nothing. I just... I don't like that Dean Winchester. He puts me on edge."  
>"Mm. I'd noticed."<br>"What?"

"Nothing... nothing. Actually, I wanted to speak to him about a few things, where is he?"

"Up there."

"Of course... damn flymen, I was warned about them..."

"Wait, what? He's not the flyman as well, is he?" Castiel groaned. He had hoped that, once the play had started running, Dean would have been able to go away. How could one man be the carpenter, the production manager, and the flyman all at once?

"He's cheap and skilled, who cares?" Gabriel shrugged, climbing the ladder. "They're supposedly the weirdest people in the theatre profession, you know that? Well, except for actors, and let's face it, they're in a world of their own. See you later, brother dear."

And with that, Gabriel was off into the fly gallery. Castiel decided to finish his lunch outside.


	4. Chapter 4

_April 2__nd__, 1928_

"_I'll kill him." _

Stomp, stomp, stomp.

"_I'm actually going to murder him."_

Stomp, stomp, tip of the hat as he passed the bakery (after all, he was angry, but that was no reason to forget his manners), stomp, stomp.

"_I'll kill him, and if he tries to talk me out of it, I'll make it all the more painful."_

Stomp, stomp, thud, thud thud.

"Gabriel! Gabriel, I demand to know what is meant by this... Show yourself! Open this door now, you miserable excuse for..."

Gabriel flung open the door to the townhouse and glared at Castiel, in the same way Dracula may have glared at the maid who opened his curtains. For a moment, looking at the hunched, bleary-eyed shadow of his brother, Castiel almost felt sympathy. And then he remembered he was pathologically angry, and decided he'd be damned if he let Gabriel get away with it this time. He pushed past his brother, into the sitting room. He heard Gabriel mumble a weak protest, before closing the front door and staggering into the sitting room.

He slumped down into one of the armchairs and gulped greedily at the tall glass of orange juice he had left on the table.

"How..."

Gabriel held up a stern hand, without stopping his continued battle against the orange juice. Eventually, he set the empty glass down on the table, and, now somewhat more human, glowered at Castiel.

"This had better be worth it."

Castiel took a moment to recapture his earlier energy, reminding himself why he was so irate in the first place.

"I received the note you rather unhelpfully left with my doorman."

Gabriel squinted for a moment, before getting on track with the conversation.

"Yes, that one. Well, what do you have to say for yourself?"

Gabriel paused, looking Castiel up and down.

"No... No, you lost me again. Speak clearly, Castiel, I can't think too quickly this morning."  
>"Prohibition means nothing to you, does it?"<p>

"I resent the implication that I'm hung-over." Gabriel tutted, sitting back in his chair.

"Oh, so this isn't the product of a night of cheap alcohol? The bags under your eyes aren't the ones you get from a night you can barely remember?"

"Oh, no, it is, and they are. I just resent the implication. Now what are you here for?"

It took all the constraint Castiel had not to leap across the room, growling and screaming. His brother was such an ultimately frustrating person, and he was amazed that he hadn't gotten used to it by now.

"You cannot do this. You cannot expect me to do this. I took on this job with the understanding that once the production started, I wouldn't be needed any more, and would only be expected to check the maintenance of the set."

"Correct."

"Gabriel, I'm not going to work as second flyman."  
>"Assistant flyman, technically."<p>

"Gabriel, I'm not doing it."

Gabriel sighed, and began massaging his temples, trying to ignore the resentful glares Castiel was shooting at him.

"Why, Castiel? Why must you take all my carefully orchestrated plans and throw them to the dogs? Why must you take the flame that is my enjoyment for life and so thoroughly douse it? Why, Castiel, must you defecate on my good time?"

"I can't work with Dean Winchester, I just can't."

"You can't?"

"I won't."

Castiel continued to glare, but his resolution was lost somewhat. Gabriel had returned from the world of the forbidden hooch, and was now back on Earth and giving him the Look.

The Look was, at first appearance, nothing special. It was a cold, measured stare, as an artist looking at a canvas or a chef looking at the list of ingredients he has. But underneath that, there was something powerful and overwhelming; a self-assured air that was just confident enough to imply Gabriel was in control, but not so much as to make him seem callous or rude.

"You will work with Mr. Winchester, or Dean, as I understand he prefers, as the assistant flyman."

"No. I refuse."  
>"You will work with him, because we need an assistant flyman, and you're the only one who comes close to matching the job description in that you're tall and half-way strong."<p>

"I don't care. Find someone else."

"Applesauce, Castiel." Gabriel stood, picked up his empty glass and smiled, knowing Castiel couldn't really refuse. "You'll do the job, if not for me, then because you like the theatre. You're intrigued by it, you can't stop thinking about it, and you'll do anything to help so that everyone else sees it in the same way you do. You're as much in love with that theatre as I am."

Castiel wanted to argue, but his brother was already smiling triumphantly.

"Go home, read up on the fly system, try and learn what you can before rehearsals start tomorrow. Maybe do some exercises for upper body strength, too."

Castiel glowered as Gabriel went to the kitchen for a second glass of juice, and decided he'd follow his brother's advice for once. If he was going to have to do the job, the last thing he wanted was to be so useless he'd have Dean lobbying for his dismissal on the first day.

_April 3__rd__, 1928_

"And, one, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, we-are-doing-a-fox-trot, what-on-earth is that?"

Crowley threw another cigar end at the unfortunate dancer. The music stopped, and Balthazar glared over the top of the piano. Castiel was secretly glad to see that he wasn't the only brother of the family Hollman to be duped into theatre work by Gabriel.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Crowley glowered back at him, before smiling at his Principle leads. "Meg, Alistair, you're doing perfectly. If you wouldn't mind taking it from the top?"

The actors smiled back, shot withering sneers around at the chorus, and took places for the song to start again. Balthazar played the piano well, and had always found it enjoying, before he arrived here. He stared up at the fly gallery where he could just make out Castiel watching him. The song was three and a half minutes long. This was the twentieth time they'd done it over. He was starting to seriously resent his elder brother. Alistair took his position on stage and began to sing to the empty auditorium. Rehearsals were hell.

"Love me or leave me and let me be lonely, you won't believe me and I love you only..."

"Ugh." Dean shook his head, sitting in the one dining chair he'd somehow managed to get up the ladder. "Musicals."

"You don't like them?" Castiel sighed, turning away from his brother's betrayed stare. He probably should have warned everyone that Gabriel was recruiting, but he didn't feel too guilty. He had to suffer, why shouldn't everyone else?

He walked over to Dean, realised there was no way Dean was giving up the chair to him, and wearily sat on the floor. This was one of the hideously tense sections of rehearsals where nothing was required of them, and so they were forced to sit on the fly gallery and find some way to keep themselves entertained.

"They're sappy." Dean shrugged. I mean, listen to this jack." He stopped talking and held a hand up as the sound of Alistair's singing drifted up to them.

"You might find the night time is fine time for kissing, but night time is my time for just reminiscing, regretting instead of forgetting with somebody else..."

Dean snorted.

"Who says things like that?"

"So you prefer your blues?" Castiel sighed, staring around the fly gallery. It had been cleaned since he'd last been up here, and organised. A small lamp with a blue gel over it shone in the corner, giving them enough light to see by, but not so much that they would throw off the stage lighting.

"I prefer music that actually talks about experience. About people getting sad and broken, or working their way up out of their messes. Don't you think that it's all so..."

"What?" He perhaps sounded a little more irritated than he meant to. He felt constantly on edge around Dean, and he was getting tired of it. "I don't see that working out of trouble is the entire stretch of human experience. Sometimes, people are happy, or dignified, or humble. This song is about being humble and embarrassed. If you really want something more cynical, there's a song in act one about a cheating husband."

Dean raised his eyebrows, and chuckled to himself. Castiel turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just... I should have guessed. Big rich family like yours, of course you like these things."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, come on." Dean gestured at Castiel's appearance, and then smirked. "You're not exactly the sort of person to have to make it through the tough times. So you're a bit sheltered. Sorry if I touched a nerve."

"Sheltered?" Castiel repeated, feeling like he'd been gravely insulted by a man who was not acknowledging the attack. "Now, see here..."

"COULD WHOEVER IS TALKING BACKSTAGE PLEASE SHUT UP BEFORE I MAKE THEM SHUT UP?" Crowley's voice cut through everything else, crashing down on it like a tidal wave. There was a moment's silence, before the music resumed.

Dean looked quite satisfied in the knowledge he had annoyed Crowley, before grinning. Castiel did not smile back.

"What?"

Castiel sighed, trying the conversation again but remembering to keep his voice low.

"Believe me; I'm not "sheltered", as you put it."

"Really?" Dean was incredulous, sitting forward in his chair so he could watch the action on the stage below him.

"Yes, and I would thank you not to make assumptions about me based on what little you know."

"Yeah... see, it's talking like that which makes me make the assumptions in the first place."

Castiel fumed. Dean was oblivious.

"Look, so you're a dewdropper. A high-hat. I don't care; it's no reason to get all upset..."

"My mother and three of my siblings were killed four years ago."

Both Castiel and Dean were silent, the musical below continuing unaware. He hadn't said it to evoke pity, or to try and explain himself. He had said it almost as if he was weary of hiding a medal that certified he was a person who lived in the real world. He was tired of being treated like some delicate ornament; a fragile thing with high worth but little use.

He stared at Dean and, though his body was hunched on the floor, weak and tired, his eyes were graced with a hardened cynicism.

Dean nodded quietly to himself. He looked like he was about to respond, when Crowley yelled that he'd had about all he could take of such amateurs, and they may as well fill their pitiful mouths with lunch since he couldn't look at any of them any longer. Castiel gladly took this opportunity to climb down the ladder and leave the fly gallery for a while, skulking off on his own before Balthazar or Gabriel could catch up with him.

When he returned, Dean wasn't in the fly gallery. He had left a note on the pin deck saying he had gone to see a man about a dog, and would be back before he was needed. There was also, Castiel noted with somewhat mixed emotions, a second chair.


	5. Chapter 5

_April 5__th__, 1928_

Castiel wasn't sure whether it had been the result of the personal outburst about his family or the fact that they had only two days left until opening night, but for whatever reason, Dean had kept most of the conversation to a minimum. He continued to teach Castiel what was needed to be a Flyman, but only in context of this play. He kept his speech to short phrases such as "you need a better grip" and "you're flying it too slow, you have to keep time".

As far as Castiel was concerned, this suited him fine.

It was at the end of rehearsal, two days before opening night, that he first had a conversation with the other Winchester. As he was descending the ladder, Castiel saw Sam waiting at the bottom.

"Hey." He called up, and Castiel was glad to see he was no longer wearing the garish candy-stripe shirt from the last time they met. "Is Dean up there?"

"Yes, he said he needed to check everything before he left."

"Sounds right." Sam smiled at him. It was a friendly enough smile, something which surprised Castiel, given the man's height and unkempt hair. He didn't like to think of himself as the type that made presumptions, but when someone almost twice your height who looks like a Wildman looms over you, smiling is not necessarily what you'd imagine they'd do next.

"Hey, are you going to the opening night party?"

It was the first Castiel had heard of it. His expression must have said as much, because Sam laughed and continued.

"Your brother announced it earlier, when there were only about five people around. He told us to spread the word, but I guess the news missed you two. He's taking everyone to a speakeasy he knows in town."

"Oh... I don't know. I'm not much of a drinker."

"Well, suit yourself." Sam shrugged as Castiel stepped aside. He began climbing the ladder, but stopped a little way up.

"You know, it'd be fun to have everyone there, and besides, can you ever run out of stories to blackmail your brother with."

This was true, but Castiel was still reluctant.

"We'll see. Good evening."

"Good evening."

Castiel went to leave, when he realised that Gabriel had taken his sketch pad earlier and not returned it to him. He hoped it would be backstage somewhere.

Venturing into the wings, he began to scour the area, knowing full well that it had passed through the hands of Gabriel and so could be anywhere about now. He checked every corner of stage right, and, finding nothing, moved to the area behind the stage instead. He had been searching for about ten minutes when he heard it.

"Damn it, Sam, you just don't get it."

Dean's voice carried, more so than his brother's. Castiel could only hear the vaguest sound indicating Sam's reply, but he could hear Dean all too well.

"You think I enjoy living with this? You think it's something I want?"

Castiel tried hard not to listen.

He could find his sketchbook tomorrow; he had a feeling his time now would be better spent leaving before he overheard something he shouldn't.

He worked his way out of the area behind the stage, towards the wings on stage left, which were closer to the exit, all the while trying not to listen.

"I stick up for you, Sam, I try and keep us normal, but you have to help me..." a murmured response.

Castiel was making good progress on his escape until he came to a roadblock. One of the sliding flats had been pushed too far into the wings. He couldn't get around it without going onto the stage, which would put him in the awkward position of making more noise as his shoes hit the bare boards, rather than the insulated flooring. He only hesitated for a moment, but that was apparently all it took for their conversation, whatever it was about, to go from bad to worse.

"I know, Dean. Don't bother, I'm going."

"Yeah, and good riddance. Hope you fall on your goddamned ass!"

Sam descended the ladder quickly, and walked towards the exit. Castiel shrunk back into the shadows, watching as Sam walked straight past him and slammed the door.

There was a very tense pause, before he heard a heavy thud resound from the fly gallery. He had a feeling it was the sound of Dean kicking something. The grumbled curse-words that drifted down after that implied he was right.

Castiel decided it would be a good time to leave.

Carefully, he tried to tread silently on the boards, placing his weight slowly and deliberately, in the hopes that-

"Don't bother; I know you're still here."

Castiel jumped, and looked up to the fly gallery, where he could just make out Dean's weary face looking back at him.

There was a tense pause in which Castiel felt he should offer some sort of condolence, or at the very least apologise...

...

There was an even more tense pause where Castiel's mind was a total, unyielding blank.

_Brilliant. Say something, you fool. Something? Anything? No... alright then, just squirm in the awkward silence, that will make things better._

Eventually, Dean smirked, and moved further into the fly gallery, where Castiel couldn't see him.

"We, uh, live in roughly the same direction from here; perhaps you wouldn't mind my walking with you?"

It took Castiel a moment to realise he had said it, and another to realise that somewhere in between his questioning his motives and berating himself for sounding so ridiculous, Dean had agreed.

It was such that they left the theatre, Castiel feeling like he had somehow made a bad situation worse as he was now stuck with Dean Winchester who was even more surly and intense than usual. As they walked, Castiel decided to break the silence.

"I didn't hear all of it, by the way. So, don't... worry, I won't ask questions or anything. It's none of my business."

"Thanks." Dean seemed legitimately relieved. "I just... Me and Sam have a lot to deal with. It gets the better of us sometimes. But he's not a bad guy."

"He seems nice." Castiel nodded, unsure of what else to say.

There was another silence.

"Are you going to this opening night shindig?"

"I don't know. I'm not a drinker."

"It's the prohibition that puts you off, right?"

Castiel faltered for a moment. Dean shook his head, laughing.

"Well, look at it this way, if it helps. There isn't a lawman in the country who'd arrest you for it. They'd take your hooch and drink it themselves before they'd even put a note on your record. And no one would bust a high-scale establishment like the one your brother's taking us to. So legally, you're probably safe."

"I don't know." Castiel shrugged. "I'm not sure I'd be missed either way. Turning up or not, I mean."

"Horsefeathers." Dean shook his head. "You've been one of the best students I've ever had. I'd want to buy you a drink for that."

"Really?"

"Of course... What's that look for?"

"Oh, nothing. This is my building."  
>"Oh, right. Well, good night."<p>

"Good night. And, Dean, if you ever do need to talk to someone about you and Sam... I know it's not the done thing, but there's a lot of time between our cues where we'd otherwise just be sitting in silence."

"Thanks." Dean smiled, before continuing on his way.

Castiel let himself into the building, feeling oddly happy with himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**A.N: just wanted to say thanks so much for all the lovely reviews, it brightens my day! I would reply to each of them, but the reply function seems to be busted for me, so...**

**In case you wonder, the costume description later on is based on costumes from this section of the film "whoopee". .com/watch?v=ANRPmTZRqkg**

_April 6__th__, 1928_

Castiel's brow creased in concentration as his hand flew across the page, sketching dark lines onto the pristine white weave. The dancers had been practicing now for an hour, and he had been sketching them for just as long. He would have to draw from this angle more often; there was something almost godly about sitting up in the Fly gallery, looking down on the performers.

Dean was sat across on the other side of the gallery (although given his height that wasn't much distance, in fact he could still lean back in his chair and put his feet up on the railing next to Castiel), and had been quite obviously attempting to act like he wasn't intrigued for some time.

"Drawing?"

"Yes."

"Fun. At least you've got something to do in the downtime." He chuckled, staring up at the roof of the theatre. "Sam always used to drive me crazy up here. He'd sit there, somehow managing to read and be a nag at the same time."

"Sit there?" Castiel repeated, not turning away from the stage as he shaded the dancer's arm with the edge of his forefinger. "So Sam got a chair, did he?"

"Only once he'd earned it, same as you."

Castiel smiled for a moment, before pausing.

"Does Sam often work with you as a fly-man?"

"All the time. He's usually the only assistant I'll work with."

"So why is he assistant stage manager now?"

"You got me." Dean laughed, looking genuinely nonplussed. "I thought you knew."

"But when you said you'd found an assistant stage manager..."

"I was talking about a friend of mine, goes by the name of Ashley. But Gabriel told me how badly you wanted the job, so I asked him if..."

"Wait." Castiel shut his sketchbook and turned to face Dean, his sense of imminent trickery rising. "Gabriel said that?"

"As I live and breathe. Why?" Dean looked at him, his eyes sharp. He seemed to tense, and Castiel picked up on what he had come to call "The Dean Offensive". The term referred to a trait of Dean's Castiel had pinpointed as the cause of the majority of friction between them, namely that every time Castiel expressed anything less than wholehearted support in everyone and everything Dean was connected to, he seemed to pre-empt an insult and thus become guarded and aggressive. Castiel chose his next lie carefully.

"Oh... I just didn't know he'd spoken to you about it, that's all. I'll have to thank him for offering Sam another job then. I'd had no idea my wanting the job would put him out."

Dean seemed satisfied, and cracked a wry smile as they heard Crowley yelling at Balthazar for being too friendly with the chorus girls again. The tension eased, and Castiel made a mental note to ask his brother exactly what the hell he was playing at.

"Hey," said Dean, staring over at the blank back wall of the gallery. "You're pretty neat at the whole art thing. You should paint a mural up there; I think it'd look keen."

"You really think so? I mean, I'm not that good..."

"That, to quote a phrase your brother told me, is "phonus bolonus". I've seen your sketches, you're..."

"If you start talking like Gabriel, I'll have to quit this job." Castiel smiled back, but under his modest blushes he completely forgot about his mental note to Gabriel. Instead, he began quizzing Dean for thoughts on what he could paint on the back wall, knowing he could pretty much do whatever, as Gabriel would never come up to the fly gallery.

Gabriel was afraid of heights.

_April 7__th__, 1928_

Knock, knock.

"It's open."

"Gabriel?"

"Ah, good morning little brother. I'm through here, in the kitchen."

"Ah, Gabriel, I was... oh dear god."

Castiel stood dumbstruck in the kitchen door as he attempted to take in the sight before him. Gabriel stood on a small dress-maker's stool, in the middle of the kitchen, while a not unfamiliar woman moved around him, examining his clothes.

Well, "his clothes" is perhaps inaccurate.

He was currently wearing a gown of peach coloured silk and taffeta frills, with a silver belt under a bust which was filled out with apples and oranges. The entire spectacle was topped off with a bizarrely wide-brimmed and floppy pink sunhat.

Castiel goggled. He was sure other men, who didn't have to be related to this mad elf of a man, would find it funny. He found it panicking.

"Gabriel, what on earth..."

"Costume fitting." Gabriel smiled. "You know Ms Harvelle, our head of costume design."

"Ellen." Castiel nodded in her direction. She smiled back at him, biting back laughter as she caught his shocked expression.

"Your brother kindly agreed to help me finish up on some of these costumes that got torn during rehearsals, and he's just the right size for it, or near enough."

Gabriel put his hands on his hips and sighed at her, before flinching as she slapped his back.

"Stand still. I'd normally get Joanna to do it, but she's away at college."

"College? She got in then?" Gabriel smiled, as Ellen finished stitching the seam along his waist. "Well good for her."

"Gabriel." Castiel was just about at breaking point, and he wasn't going to yell at his brother while one of them was in women's clothing. "Take that dress off."

"Why sir, I hardly know you!" Gabriel slapped Castiel playfully across the face (an advantage of his being on the dress-maker's stool; they were now at eye-level). Castiel was sorely tempted to hit him back.

"Actually, I'm all finished here, so you can shimmy out of it." Ellen smiled, plucking an orange out of Gabriel's makeshift cleavage and taking it to the kitchen counter to slice it into pieces. "Castiel, would you like a piece of orange?"

"No, thank you, I need to speak with my brother."

Gabriel had dropped the dress now (Castiel was relieved to note he had been wearing his own clothes underneath) and grinned at him from his podium, clearly relishing in the extra few inches.

"What now?"

"I'd..." Castiel cast his eyes to Ellen, who seemed to understand his hesitation perfectly.

"I shouldn't worry about my sensibilities, doll-face. Believe me, there's nothing I haven't seen."

Castiel continued to look uncomfortable, and Ellen continued to read the situation perfectly, much to his relief.

"But... you know, I think I'll go downstairs and try one of these pastries your brother's been commending so highly. If they're as good as he claims, I may have to send a few to my daughter." With that, and a quick reassuring glance at Castiel, she left the room. He liked her; she was the sanest person in the shambles of a theatre, and it was a shame she wouldn't be spending so much time around now the show was about to start running.

"What is it?" Gabriel sighed, crossing his arms.

"You lied. Why isn't Sam Winchester assistant fly-man?"

"Ah." Gabriel's winning smile faltered for a second, but he continued with all the grace and honesty of the most faithful priest... or the most talented con-man.

"Well?"

"The reasons, if I'm honest, were two-fold. First, from the moment I met Sam Winchester, I was intrigued by him, and felt he had more to him than someone who should just stay up in the Fly gallery every evening."

Castiel could half-believe it.

"And second, you need to make new friends, and Dean Winchester seemed like a good candidate."

Castiel could not believe it.

"I'm leaving."

"Castiel!" Gabriel gave an exasperated grunt and leapt from the podium and grabbed his arm, a look of genuine concern on his face.

"I'm not some puppet, Gabriel."

"I know, I should have told you or asked permission, but I had a good reason to do it without your consent."  
>"Which is?"<p>

"You would have said no."

Castiel found himself once again restraining the urge to punch his brother.

"Good day, Gabriel."  
>"No, Castiel, stop, listen."<p>

Gabriel was faster, perhaps more streamlined in his diminutive nature, and was between Castiel and the door in second. To his credit, he did seem to be genuine, but then so does the baby cuckoo before it hatches.

"It's been four years, Castiel."

Sadness did not so much descend as fall into the conversation, the words hanging in the silence. Gabriel sighed, knowing he pulled a dirty trick.

"I worry about you. You've barely done anything since the... Since the others..."

"They're dead, Gabriel, just say it."

"Castiel, we all deal with grief our own way. And I can appreciate that your way of dealing with it was to take to yourself, but for the past four years you've barely done anything. All the time you were working on the set, it was like you finally had something to focus on, you'd started being your old self again. So, what, I thought I could keep you in the world of the living a little longer by giving you a job on the running crew as well. Is that so bad of me?"

Castiel stared at his brother in silence. After a while, he sighed.

"No. But I feel like a sap for being kept in the dark like that."

Gabriel nodded, still staring at the floor.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I didn't mean to razz you. But, hey, party tonight!" Gabriel grinned, back to his up-tempo self. "Bring yourself here at seven, this is where everyone is meeting."

"No, I don't feel..."

"If you are not here at seven, I shall escort everyone around to your apartment and we shall not leave until you join us at the goddamned juice-joint."

"Alright, alright, fine." Castiel sighed, forcing a slight smile as Gabriel punched him affectionately on the arm. Then, as an afterthought, he turned and added; "But you treat me like that again and there'll be consequences."

"Oh yeah?"

"I'm as tall as Michael now, and you haven't grown an inch. Think on that, brother."

Castiel left, the barrage of imaginative and possibly imagined swear-words falling on the door behind him. He met Ellen coming up the stairs, and was delighted to hear of another person who had fallen in love with the bakery.


	7. Chapter 7

_April 7__th__, 1928 (continued)_

Castiel bolted from Gabriel's townhouse, only very nearly arriving on time. Dean gave him an unimpressed but not too serious glare as they ascended to the fly gallery, which suggested to Castiel that, while his tardiness was not appreciated, he'd hardly be put in trouble for it. After all, they had more important things to worry about.

The actors too their places on the half-lit stage, preparing themselves as a dull murmur arose from the other side of the heavy curtain. The atmosphere was like kindling, just waiting for one spark to set it ablaze.

"Excited?" Dean had prepared his grip on the rope that operated the safety curtain, and was waiting for the cue to open it.

"I wouldn't say that..."

"Nervous?"

"Hardly."

"You're lying." Dean said, with a chuckle, a smug grin on his face. Castiel turned away from the railing that overlooked the stage, and held the rope behind Dean.

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"How do you know?"

"Your hands are shaking, and you look like you're about to pull a Dan Boone."

"What?"

Dean chuckled again, and mimed being violently ill. Castiel forced a weak smile, almost buckling at the knees as Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

"Don't worry about it. Just... don't point yourself at the stage if you do. It'll be fine, you'll see. And, hey, we have the least pressure on us."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, if we do our jobs well, no one will even notice we're here. Oh, speaking of our jobs..." Dean waved across the stage to Sam's dimly lit desk, where Castiel could see the assistant stage manager giving them a signal to begin opening the curtain. Just like in rehearsal, Dean and Castiel lifted the rope as one, and the weighted screen glided up like a great conductor's hand, silencing the audience. The moment they had tied off the rope, the red stage curtain parted and flew to the wings, and the lights came up on the stage. With the orchestra in the pit, including Balthazar on piano, the overture trilled. Gabriel watched from the back of the atrium, his fingers tapping manically on the railing behind the chairs as he could not stay still.

Castiel, however, was firmly convinced he had the best seat in the house. He and Dean pulled their chairs up to the railing that overlooked the stage and leant on it, part watching the show, and part watching for Sam's cues. They had seen it all in rehearsal, of course, but there was something almost magical about the way the stage shone while the audience were in. The actors tried that little bit harder, the lights shone that little bit brighter, and somehow everything seemed simultaneously more true and less real.

"Castiel? Hey, Cas."

Castiel looked up, seeing that Dean was offering him something in a green glass bottle. Before he could ask, Dean laughed again.

"It's just water. But you look like your nerves are going anyway."

"It's great." Castiel smiled, looking back out over the stage.

Dean shook his head, in the manner all seasoned veterans manage when they see the new recruits delighting over what they've long since found routine.

At interval, Castiel and Dean stayed in the fly gallery, deeming it pointless to climb down the ladder for the sake of five minutes. Balthazar joined them briefly, bringing some of the pastries that Gabriel had left backstage for the cast and crew, and leaving with a newfound irritation towards his brother, who managed to secure the only place in the entire theatre he wouldn't be bothered by Gabriel. Dean had laughed.

"Your family... are you all that strange or is it just the ones I've met?"

"Well, they say insanity is a relative term." Castiel smiled, sheepishly. "It's certainly the term I'd use for my relatives."

"That's good. Very funny. You should send it to Groucho Marx." Dean clapped him on the shoulder again, as everyone took places for the beginning of the second half. Castiel grinned, feeling that, although he'd deny it until the day he died out of nothing but spite and principle, Gabriel may have been right.

The show ended at five minutes to seven, leaving Castiel very much in the lurch.

"Look, if you didn't bring a change of clothes, you'll have to go as you are." Gabriel was as unhelpful and unsympathetic as ever, leaning against the backstage exit, casting a gaze over the chorus girls which strongly brought home the meaning of the phrase "wolf in sheep's clothing".

"Gabriel, I'm wearing my work clothes. Hardly suitable for any sort of party. Please, just let me go home and change?"

"Out of the question!" Gabriel looked at him at though he had just suggested they screw the party and sit here eating dirt and rocks instead. "Don't think I don't know what's going on in that reclusive little hermit brain of yours, brother. I know that the moment I let you go back to your apartment, you'll cook up some reason to stay there. You are such an old maid."

"I am not!" Castiel responded, a little louder than necessary, perhaps, as he seemed to frighten several passing chorus girls.

"I am not..." He repeated, more of a hiss this time. "I just want to go home and get changed."

"Hm. Well, you do look like you could use a little class. I mean, everyone else bought their clothes with them so they could change in the dressing rooms, so we're all ready to go, but..."

A few voices drifted through from outside, asking why Gabriel was taking so long and demanding to be led to someplace fun. Gabriel turned, hushing them, before grabbing Castiel by the shoulder.

"Dean! Balthazar!" The two men pushed their way out of the assembled crowd, and Castiel felt Gabriel's grip increase to something like a death vice.

"The artist here forgot his spare clothes, and I know if I let him go home on his own, the miserable sap won't come back." Gabriel silenced Castiel with a stern look, before adopting an evil glint in his eye which seemed to revel in the anguish he was causing. Gabriel continued.

"Balthazar, you know the particular juice-joint I have in mind, over by Carnaby-Rouse's books?"

"I was there just last Tuesday."

"Excellent. In that case, I shall take the group here to meet the others at my townhouse, you and Mr Winchester can escort our reluctant debutant, and we shall all meet there in, what do you say, a little under an hour?"

Castiel again opened his mouth to protest, but was again cut off by his brothers speaking over him. As Gabriel cried "let the procession commence, and Balthazar began frogmarching Castiel in the opposite direction, Dean exchanged a conspiratorial glance with his Assistant fly-man.

"Listen, I can sympathise when it comes to family making you do things you don't want to do. So if you want to just slip away and not turn up, I won't guard you too much."

"Appreciated." Castiel smiled back. "But I'm actually not so reluctant to go as my brothers think, and besides, they know where I live."


	8. Chapter 8

_April 7__th__, 1928 _

_(continued further)_

The chronicler feels that, to save Castiel some shred of dignity, we shall forgo describing how he pleaded to be allowed to walk like a man rather than be dragged like a child, and how he fussed and blushed when they finally got to his apartment and Dean complimented him on it. Instead, the chronicler feels it a good time to begin describing the speakeasy in question. As with many others, it had been created out of a large cellar, which was underneath both "The Pinnacle" hardware store and the house of Mr Singer, the owner. To gain access to the speakeasy, known as "The Peak", one simply had to knock on Mr Singer's door, and ask, when he answered, if he could re-open the hardware store so they could buy some emergency light bulbs. Mr Singer would then allow them into the shop, and through the "employees only" door which led down to the cellar.

God forbid any poor puritan who actually desired emergency light bulbs.

The speakeasy itself was low-ceilinged and sprawling, giving the effect of an ant-nest or rabbit warren. Music filled the main chamber, supplied by a small, stylish jazz band, and there were plenty of nooks and off-shoots that a person or two could get lost in, should they so desire.

By the time Castiel had changed and the three men had found their way into the speakeasy, Gabriel was just recovering from getting lost with one of the chorus girls, and beginning his approach on another.

"You were fantastic, doll, really. Can I get you something to drink? You know, I invented a drink, once. Oh yeah, it's getting quite famous. I can't really talk about it..."

"Gabriel."

He turned, excusing himself from the giggling floozy of a chorus girl, and approaching the newcomers with open arms.

"Finally! Everyone's been waiting for you!" He whistled for the bar-tender, and ordered the three men drinks. "Drink, be merry. The show was a hit, the elephant's eyebrows! I'm sure there'll be rave reviews in the dailies come morning."

"How long are we allowed to stay here?" Dean asked, already eyeing up the bar.

"As long as we like, dear fellow. I was friends with the proprietor enough before tonight, but now it seems he has more reason to like me."

"Dare we ask what you did?"

"I simply introduced him to our lovely head of costume. I must say, they seem to be hitting it off quite nicely. So, drink until dawn, as there's no rest for the wicked. Speaking of which, excuse me, will you, I've yet to find the chorus girl that can fulfil my appetite." And with that, Gabriel disappeared into the crowd.

Balthazar grinned and suggested he would try following his older brother's example for once. Castiel rolled his eyes, and gladly accepted Dean's suggestion of sitting at the bar. They took the drinks Gabriel had ordered for them, and quickly followed them with the ones Dean paid for. Castiel offered to pay, but Dean said he had promised he would buy Castiel a drink, and if there were three things he was serious about, it was his job, his car, and his hooch.

Perhaps it was the heady atmosphere, or the frankly shocking strength of the home-distilled alcohol, but Castiel was already feeling the drink seep into his bloodstream. He glanced across at Dean, and had a feeling he was the same.

"The elephant's eyebrows... I don't know if I've heard that one before." Dean chuckled, looking into his glass as though the contents had just punched him on the nose. If his was anything like Castiel's, it felt quite like being slapped across the face too.

"I don't know why he has to use so many of those strange phrases. Maybe he thinks they make him more attractive."

"I don't see how they would." Dean laughed. "Unless he could make stilts with them."

Castiel laughed too, feeling the rotgut burn the back of his throat.

"So. I said I wasn't going to pry, but I'm intrigued." Castiel cleared his throat. "What were you and Sam arguing about?"

"No." Dean shook his head. "Not getting into that can of worms. Let's talk about your family, if we have to talk about families at all."

"You think my family is less... you've met my brothers." Castiel pointed in the vague direction of the crowd. "My family, I think you will find, has enough issues and insanity to outdo any problem you have with your brother."

"Alright..." Dean took a long draught from his drink, and grinned at Castiel. "I say we each get five questions, and the right to veto two."

Castiel thought for a moment and realised the alcohol must have been stronger than he thought, because he found himself agreeing.

"Alright, sir. I shall play that game."

"Ok... uh...So if three of your siblings died, just how many people were in your family?"

"That's a tricky one." Castiel grinned, revelling slightly in managing to confuse Dean this early in the game. "See, my father, Charles, has had... myriad children, as he and my mother adopted one for each they had naturally. Not to mention that my father's now remarried."

"Huh... that's interesting..."

"Yes. So in order, Michael, Gabriel, Balthazar, me, and Rachael were born. Virgil, Lucien, Raphael, Joshua, Uriel, and Anna were adopted. My mother was Eve, but my step-mother is Rebecca."

"Ok." Dean nodded. He seemed to be trying hard to remember those names. "Second question. Who died?"

"My mother, Anna, Uriel and Virgil. And Lucien."

"I thought you said three siblings?"

"Is that your third question?"

"Yes."

"Alright then..." He shifted in his chair uncomfortably. "Three siblings were killed, yes, as well as my mother. Lucien wasn't a victim."

A silence fell. Dean was watching him closely, and Castiel felt the same uncomfortable burn on the back of his neck as he knew Dean's eyes were on him. Dean drained his glass, and coughed, his voice raw with the alcohol.

"You want to ask me now?"

He blinked, confused.

"You've got two questions left."

"Well, you've got your two vetoes, so I may as well not get onto that."

Castiel couldn't help feeling he was being let off too easily, but he obliged and decided he would ask questions. He didn't particularly want to get into the whole sordid story at that point anyway.

"Does Sam live with you?"

"Ever since Dad kicked him out when he was fourteen."

"Do you still speak with your father?"

"Um... no."

Dean motioned for another couple of drinks, and didn't expand on it at all, so Castiel felt he was meant to continue.

"Why?"

"Veto." Dean shook his head, taking a firm drink. Castiel thought for a moment.

"Is it because of the theatre?"

"No."

"Is it... something Sam did?"

"Uh..." He laughed. "Yes."

"Hm. Well, I'm no closer to knowing. And those are my five questions."

"I guess you'll just have to keep thinking on it." Dean grinned, his eyes shining in the dim light. "So how about we get a few more drinks and start a pool on how many times your brother will strike out?"

"I'd give you poor odds." Castiel drank, laughing. "Gabriel is surprisingly convincing. He's taken what money he can get and indulged himself endlessly. Believe me; if he sets his sights on something, it will happen."

"Really?"

"That's how I ended up working in the theatre."

For some reason, both men found that incredibly funny, and could barely breathe for laughing.

The clock had ticked around to ten, and the party was in full swing.

The band played louder and more rambunctiously as they hoped to seduce anything in a short skirt.

Mr Singer had turned a blind eye to the near destructive behaviour of the guests, instead focusing on drinking and arguing with Ellen, who was surprisingly able and willing to keep up with him.

Castiel coughed and wheezed, leaning on Dean's shoulder as he stood up.

"Excuse me, will you, I need to... use the facilities."

"You alright?" Dean seemed much more able to hold his liquor than Castiel, who was, in fairness, not as experienced a drinker. Castiel waved aside his concerns and wobbled across the room to one of the off-shoot corridors, where he was pretty sure the restrooms were.

And, also in his defence, he was only wobbling to balance out the fact that the room was wobbling in the other direction. Honest.

H e made it across to the crowded dance floor and eased himself into the corridor. He squinted at the sign on the door, picking out the letters that indicated "men's". He pushed into the long, well lit room, and leant over one of the sink basins, splashing his face with water.

The ice cold water served to sober him enough that the room stopped moving and his eyes stop feeling as though they were rolling loose in the sockets. He caught his reflection in the mirror, and spotted something moving behind him.

Now, as the observant reader may have gathered, Castiel had never thought of himself as a man who used much profanity, but what happened in the space of the next five minutes pushed him very near it.

Reflected in the mirror, he saw the odd spectacle of Sam holding Gabriel up, both of them staring guiltily.

From the way Gabriel's fingers were still knotted in Sam's shaggy hair, and the way Sam's hand was inside Gabriel's shirt, there was no way anyone could deny Castiel had walked in on what could tastefully be called a heavy petting session.

Castiel spun around to face his brother, a large part of his brain refusing to process this obviously nonsensical situation.

No, he was half seas over and hallucinating. That was it.

This wasn't real. His brother was a hedonistic fool, but he wouldn't ... he wasn't...

"Castiel..." Gabriel spoke slowly, disentangling himself from Sam who, to his credit, had the decency to look bashful. "Castiel, don't overreact. I... would have told you, but..."

He reached out to grip Castiel's shoulder.

Castiel pulled away.

He backed out of the restroom, followed by Gabriel's angry shouts. He couldn't hear them. He couldn't really hear anything. He was just...

He found himself at the bar, staring at Dean. He didn't remember walking across the dance floor. Dean was looking up at him with a confused expression.

"Cas? Are you ok? You look like you've seen a ghost..."

"Is Sam a queer?"

Dean blinked, looking very taken aback. Castiel had said it quietly enough, but he knew Dean had heard him just fine.

"How do you... what makes you say that?"

"Is he? Is that why you were arguing?"

"What's that got to do with you?" Dean was on the offensive again, pulling himself up to his full height, daring Castiel to continue.

Castiel looked around. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach, and he wasn't sure why.

"So when you were saying he was "making life difficult" for you. It was because he's a three-letter man. Do you think it's wrong?"

"I don't see that it's any of your business." Dean was muttering, making it very clear that he didn't want to continue this conversation.

"I'm making it my business."

"Fine. It's wrong. Is that what you want to hear? Men should be sending their hours chasing women so they can get married and have kids. That's the right way, isn't it? That's the Christian way?"

Castiel couldn't move.

He wanted to. He wanted to fall to the floor, or to kick and scream, but he couldn't. He found every muscle, every fibre, to be immovably tense, locked in a moment of pure resentment filling the air between them.

"Castiel." Gabriel had finally found him again, and it was his friendly hand resting on his arm that sparked Castiel into moving. Without saying a word, without looking at anyone, Castiel left The Peak, stormed down the street and into his apartment, before tearing off his evening suit and kicking over several chairs, before sitting up against the cold glass of his bay window and staring into the night.

Everything seemed oddly, inexplicably empty.


	9. Chapter 9

_April 8__th__, 1928_

At two in the morning, Castiel realised he should probably sleep, rather than sit by the window, slowly numbing himself for no good reason.

At five in the morning, he gave up seeking sleep through natural means, and took sleeping pills instead.

The combination of the pills and ludicrously strong alcohol meant that he woke at eleven, to a call from the receptionist of the building, who noted several messages had been left for him both in person and over the phone. Castiel thanked her, but stressed that he did not wish to speak to or see Gabriel, and he was not to be allowed in until further instruction. He went back to bed.

At one, he showered and forced himself to stop moping. He wasn't sure exactly what he was upset about, or perhaps he just refused to really think about it. He felt a horrible, sickening twist in his stomach every time he tried, so for now he was content that he would be a professional, and go to the theatre, but that was it.

He would not speak with Gabriel, or Sam, or Dean. He would do his job, and then he would come home, take some more sleeping tablets and pray for the world to leave him alone.

By five, he was walking to the theatre. The show started at seven. He couldn't bear waiting.

He entered through the stage door, and found Gabriel sat in the middle of the stage, waiting for him. He looked as though he had been there for a while, his still, hunched form uncharacteristically morose.

_He's not getting my pity._

As the stage door slammed, Gabriel's head snapped around, and he broke into a nervous, apologetic smile. He stumbled to his feet, following Castiel and trying to get in his way.

"We need to talk."

"No we don't. You put me in a very vulnerable position, used me like any one of your brainless followers, like any other stranger, so that you could indulge your sordid desires with a man you know nothing about. What's to talk about?"

"Castiel, that is not fair, nor is it true."

"Well, Gabriel, given your track record, you'll forgive me if I don't believe your account of the truth."

Gabriel blinked, seeming genuinely hurt.

"Castiel... everything I said about getting you this job because I thought it would help you... it's all true. The fact that I've met Sam, that's just... coincidental benefit."

"Yes. For you."

Castiel pushed past him, heading directly for the ladder to the fly gallery. Gabriel followed close behind him.

"Oh come on, you're my brother. I mean, I've done some pretty low things in my time, but do you honestly think I'd set up my emotionally vulnerable brother as a distraction just so I could..." Gabriel gestured clearly trying to find a phrase that would keep Castiel comfortable. "Make whoopee?"

Castiel said nothing, in such a way that meant a lot more than anything he could have said. Gabriel seemed taken aback, and looked for a moment like he was about to become very angry. He pushed it aside, and tried again, although there was certainly a much firmer note to his voice.

"You're being ridiculous. This is the first decade in my life... hell, in history, where a man can be effeminate, and can enjoy love regardless of who's giving it, without society at large being fussy. And I can see the tide is turning. You mark my words, come the thirties, it'll be long dresses and lots of buttons all over again. So why, Castiel? Why do you care so much about what I get up to with Sam Winchester?"

"I don't."

Castiel climbed the ladder to the fly gallery, leaving Gabriel staring up, torn between continuing the argument and avoiding leaving ground level. Castiel knew his brother wouldn't follow him up the ladder, his fear of heights far too pressing, and so considered himself safe from the conversation he didn't want to have.

Gabriel had other ideas.

Other ideas, and a strong arm.

The scone, dense yet light, made for a good projectile, and exploded on Castiel's coat with a resounding "smack", sending raisins and crumbs of cake all over the fly gallery.

"He knows, by the way." Gabriel called up from the stage. "Dean knows about me and Sam, and he guessed it was going to happen a while ago."

Castiel was still and silent. Gabriel couldn't see him, but he couldn't hear him moving either. He had a feeling his words had, much like the ill-fated scone, hit their mark.

"If, like I think, you're worried how this is going to affect your "relationship" with Dean, maybe you should ask him about it first. You've got a lot to learn about the world, little brother. A lot."

And with that, Gabriel left.

Castiel stood for a moment, the words still swimming around his head as they refused to connect with anything. He wasn't sure how long he stood there in silence.

When Dean arrived to prepare for the show, Castiel was sat in one of the chairs, staring at the blank space of wall.

"Thinking up mural ideas?"

_The only ideas I've had to paint on that wall are all offensive, profane, and aimed at specific individuals._

"Trying to."

Dean walked over to the second chair, just on the edge of Castiel's vision. He looked like he was about to say something, but never did.

"I suppose we should make sure everything's ready for the show." Castiel said, a statement, not a question. He stood, and began preparing everything, not listening for Dean's reply.

It was nearly three hours, and many anxious glances from Sam over in his corner later, but the musical finished once again, and everyone left.

Castiel debated whether he would stay behind so that he knew he wouldn't bump into anyone, or leave as soon as possible so he'd have less likelihood of having to spend time with Dean. Dean had another moment where he looked like he was trying to say something, and Castiel decided that, at this point in time, discretion was the better part of valour.

He discretely hid himself in one of the men's room stalls.

People came and went, Castiel catching snippets of their conversation, and was not interested by any of it. After a while, he heard someone say his name.

"Castiel? Um... Castiel, it's me, Sam. Hello."

Castiel said nothing, and made no effort to move.

"I saw you sneak in here. Don't worry, I didn't tell Dean or Gabriel, if you're not talking to them I completely understand. And, if you don't want to talk to me right now, I understand that too."

Castiel continued to say nothing.

"I just wanted to say, I'm sorry for putting you in such a situation yesterday. It was inconsiderate. But... You seem to be very angry at all of us, which you're completely entitled to. I'm just... not sure you know why you're angry..."

Sam made a few more confused attempts at speech, before excusing himself.

Castiel sighed. He stood against the door of the stall, his head lean back so he stared up at the ceiling, wondering what he ever did to deserve this and why he knew just what Sam Winchester was getting at and that it was correct.

"Alright, Cas, enough of this." The voice was gruff, and instantly made the bottom drop out of Castiel's stomach. "You and Sam are both as subtle as wrecking balls; don't pretend I don't know you're in there."

Castiel didn't move.

"Cas. Enough of this baloney, huh?"

Castiel didn't move.

"Come on. Quit hiding in there."  
>Castiel opened the door, walked past Dean and left the restroom, heading straight for the door out of the theatre. Dean was hot on his tails.<p>

"Cas. Look, if you're that upset by your brother being... that way, fine, but I don't see why you're so mad at me."

Castiel slammed on the figurative brakes, stopping dead just as he reached backstage.

"I couldn't care less about my brother's activities."  
>"Really?" Dean was unsold.<p>

"I just... you should have..."

"Should have told you? Why? Why should you care?"

"I... don't."

"But you clearly do."

Dean was glaring hard, having caught up with him and now almost circling him. Castiel shifted uncomfortably, and had the unhappy sensation of being reminded of childhood bullies. There was an uncomfortably long pause, in which Dean showed no signs of just backing down and letting Castiel leave.

"I don't know, alright? I'm angry, and I'm pissed off, and I don't know why, and I just want to be left alone."

Dean nodded, seeming to consider this for a good five seconds, before grabbing Castiel by the arm and dragging him to where the black roadster was waiting outside for them.

"Not happening, Cas. You and I are going to hash this out once and for all, because I am nothing if not professional and I refuse to let a half-baked grudge jeopardise my career."

Castiel said nothing, partly because he was concentrating on reducing the gut-twisting burn that spread across his chest and up the back of his neck when Dean grabbed his arm. It wasn't helped by being crammed into the less-than-spacious roadster, feeling very much deprived of the polite amount of personal space.


	10. Chapter 10

_April 8__th__, 1928_

_(continued)_

They arrived at Dean's cabin, Castiel still protesting meekly, and Dean still rejecting all other proposals.

"Look, if I just apologise for giving you the cold shoulder, can I go home?"

"No."

"What if I apologise to Sam, too?"

"No."

"Please don't make me apologise to Gabriel."

"No."

"Is that "no, I don't have to", "no, you won't make me apologise", or "no, it won't get me out of this situation"?"

"No, you're not getting out of this."

"Well, you're not winning yourself any favours."

Dean opened the front door and flicked on the interior lights. They were dim, so he lit the fire as well. Castiel entered somewhat reluctantly, observing the homely, old-west feel the cabin had to it. Everything seemed to be made of either stone or lumber. It was, to say the least, a far cry from the stylish furnishings he was used to.

Dean laughed as he stood from the fireplace, Castiel's "fish-out-of-water" appearance clearly more evident than he would have liked.

"Sam broke the coat rack, so you're just going to have to leave your coat over the couch. What will you drink?"

"Oh, I don't think I should…"

"Beer it is." Dean grinned, before laughing and clapping him on the shoulder. He turned away, and Castiel discretely rolled his shoulder, thinking that the more time he spent with Dean, the more likely it was he'd end up with a broken collar bone.

"I'm joking. We have fruit juice, water, milk… no hooch in the house, I'm afraid."

"Just water, thank you." Castiel was quite surprised; he didn't think Dean a drunk, but he had assumed from the amount he had heard Dean and Gabriel discuss it, they both made a habit of keeping alcohol around the house.

"Sam thinks alcohol's unhealthy." Dean called from the kitchen. Castiel wasn't sure whether or not to follow, but he had a feeling Dean would just walk back through to him anyway, so he decided to sit. He chose a seat on the end of the couch, nearest the door. The seating was arranged to that they faced away from the fireplace, but towards the radio and the door. They also overlooked the large window, through which the faint lights of the town shone in that magnificent vista that made the cabin worthwhile. Castiel let his gaze linger on the twinkling lights of the town, wishing he was a poet instead of an amateur artist, because he felt a poet could get away with saying how they looked like stars fallen to earth.

Dean returned and handed him a glass of water, before sitting at the other end of the couch and turning to face him.

"Forget about the pretty lights, we need to have a conversation."

"Where is Sam?" Castiel would be damned if he couldn't steer any conversation off the rails.

"I don't know. Not here. Now, about today…"

Castiel made a sour, displeased face, which cut Dean off. He caught himself quick enough, but Dean had already noted the expression.

"What?"

"Nothing."  
>"Cas. What was that face for?"<p>

"I just… forgive me if the thought of our respective brothers doing god knows what in that townhouse of Gabriel's…"

"Actually, they've both agreed not to see each other again until they know you're ok with it." Dean spoke in a casual enough tone, but there was a defensive, challenging glare to his eyes that seemed to imply that Dean would take no nonsense.

"Oh." Castiel relied simply, feeling that any act of human decency was more likely Sam's idea than Gabriel's, and, even more cynically, if that was why Gabriel was so eager to talk to him this afternoon, but he said nothing of it. Dean nodded, and picked up his glass of what looked like some sort of fruit cordial.

"Sam's very into health. Making sure everyone's ok. It's his way of taking care of the people he cares about." Dean's tone was practically laden with suggestion, and Castiel had to wonder why he was getting the "if you hurt my brother" speech and not Gabriel.

"How considerate of him."

Dean shot him a weary glare, and Castiel felt genuinely perplexed. He felt he was being chastised for not joining the conversation, but part of him was stubborn and part of him was self-righteous, so he continued to be obtuse. Part of him legitimately didn't know what Dean was expecting him to say.

"Are you a conservative man, Cas?"

_Ah. There we go._

"If by that, you mean "do I think less of your brother or mine because they have taken a fancy to each other", then no."

"So why were you so…" Dean cast around for the right word. "Why did you react like that last night?"

Castiel shrugged. He'd been asking himself the same question for the last ten hours.

"I don't know. I just… I felt like you should have told me?"

"Really?"

_Really?_

"I suppose."

"Well… I don't see why you'd feel that way."

"I don't, either."

A large part of Castiel had decided to let his brain loose on this one. Alright, it seemed, somewhere, deep in the shadowy corners of his mind, was the answer he'd not been able to find, and the dialogue he'd not been able to have with himself. His rational brain had no explanation as to why he would act the way he did, and for now it seemed content to sit back and let whatever part of him was currently blurting out awkward revelations keep going.

"Ok then." Dean nodded, looking slightly confused, but glad they were talking. "Sam likes men. So, apparently, does Gabriel."

"Gabriel likes anything that will let him like it."

Dean laughed, a surprised bark of a laugh, which elicited a sheepish smile from Castiel. For some reason, Dean always seemed surprised whenever Castiel told a joke. He supposed, in contrast to the rest of his family, he must have seemed quite stoic.

"How long have you known about the two of them?"

"Since that argument you overheard." Dean shifted his weight in his seat, made uncomfortable by the sudden turn in the conversation. "That's what it was about. Sam told me he felt there was the stirrings of a relationship there, and I lost my patience."  
>Castiel said nothing, not really sure what to say. Dean glared at him, as if Castiel was firing a thousand questions a minute at him.<p>

"I… I suppose, in full disclosure, I should tell you about what went on between us and our father." Dean cleared his throat and hunched over in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. He stared at the floor. "Since you're now guilty by association."

Castiel continued to say nothing, not out of any attempt to snub Dean, but out of consideration. He had a feeling interruption would cause Dean to close off this slowly opening avenue of conversation again.

"You have to swear that you'll tell no one."

"I swear." Castiel nodded, speaking quietly, and watching Dean intently. He seemed… nervous. Tired. This weary wreck of a man was a far cry from the industrious powerhouse he had worked with in the fly gallery this past week. Castiel shuffled a little closer on the couch, enough to let Dean know he was supportive, but not so much to make him feel he was invading his space.

Or, that was what he hoped for.

Castiel had always been quite hopeless at comforting people.

Dean cleared his throat, nodded, and spoke slowly, as though reluctant to admit he had practiced this speech.

"Our father was a conservative man. He raised us what he thought was the Christian way; he cared for us the best he knew. It was always one sided, though. Our mother died when Sam was very young… The doctors said her heart just stopped beating one day; she just dropped dead. And so we were raised as men, by a man. That was how we were told to see it. Men worked, women cooked; that sort of thing. So when he found Sam with another boy… Sam was fourteen. He was disowned at fourteen, and Dad told him never to come back. I stood up for him; I said that he couldn't be expected to live on his own… So Dad said that, if I could sympathise with such a… with an "abomination", then I could go with him. Neither of us has spoken to him since."

Castiel nodded, silently, wondering what he could possibly say to that. Dean didn't look sad, or heart-broken, and he certainly wasn't crying. He looked like all of his tears had long since gone, and all that was left was something much worse than something simple and external, like sadness or anger. What was left was betrayal.

"I had no idea. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, well." Dean sniffed, breaking his stare at the floor to glance at Castiel. Castiel, who had not taken his eyes off Dean for a moment, felt his entire illusion of Dean fall away.

Dean the professional, Dean the strong, Dean the rugged, short tempered man, they all were a mask, for Dean the betrayed, Dean the reluctant, Dean who had tried to keep his family together, and been rewarded with only a slap in the face from the world at large.

"No, I mean it." Castiel found himself sad on Dean's behalf, as though he could offer some sort of vicarious catharsis. "I see how my reacting the way I did could have completely misled you. Believe me, the fact that your brother is so inclined as to… well, my brother, I suppose… the fact is, I could not care less about the romantic dealings of your brother, and I would never let such a trivial matter impact on our work, or our friendship which, although it is new and perhaps didn't have the easiest of starts, is possibly the most valuable thing in my otherwise balled up life right now, with the exception of the C.P, which means more to me than my own home, has more of me in it than my own home, and frankly has been violated by Gabriel because he chose such a stupid name."

Rational thought sat up for a moment, shook it's head, and slapped Castiel's entire brain, asking it just what it thought it was playing at.

Castiel, at large, had no idea where that came from.

Dean blinked a couple of times, before cracking into a smile. It was a grateful, warm smile, which was relieved and comforted, and made Castiel's insides twist in a way that he was not entirely uncomfortable with.

"You're right." Dean smiled. "It's a stupid name for a theatre."


	11. Chapter 11

_April 8th 1928_

_(Continued further)_

"So come on." Dean cleared his throat, the laughter ebbing away but the smile just about managing to hold on. "I've told you my deep and troubled past, are you going to return the favour?"

Castiel's smile faltered. He didn't realise he'd been watching Dean's eyes until he suddenly found himself staring out of the window. He stood, awkwardly.

"I should go."

"Oh, you can't be serious."

"I haven't eaten since lunch time, and it's already quite late." Eight o'clock was late, and he'd kick anyone who said otherwise. "I shouldn't be imposing…"

"Please. Gabriel is more imposing than you, and that's only because he holds power over my paycheck." Dean stood, and crossed the room before Castiel could move out of the way, standing in front of the door. His arms were crossed, and his expression was not one that seemed impressed.

"Dean…"

"If you don't want to talk about what happened with your family, fine." Dean shrugged. "I'd just like to get to know you a little better."

"Dean, you…"

"You seem like you could be an okay guy, once you relax enough to take the stick out of your…"

"Dean." Castiel sighed, walking toward him. "You're standing on my coat."

Dean looked down, and realised he was indeed standing on the tails of Castiel's coat, which had slipped from the back of the couch to the floor. Dean started, seemingly a little embarrassed, and grabbed the offending piece of outer-wear, slapping at the few traces of dirt in an attempt to clean it off. Castiel smirked.

"Ah, I'm sorry, it's… my shoes are clean, you know, there's… what?"

"Nothing."

"No, really. Is there something on my face?"

"No, it's just…" Castiel shrugged, looking away. He wished he could stop smirking, but for some reason he could only wipe the expression away for a brief moment before it came back. He looked at his shoes, then at the fireplace, which was in the exact opposite direction to Dean, but somehow that only made the situation funnier, as if the smirk demanded to be acknowledged and appreciated and had decreed that it would unionise with inappropriate laughter until it's demands were met.

This was not helped when Dean, in his panic, seemed to mistake the silently shaking shoulders and lack of eye contact as signs that Castiel was weeping. If anything this just redoubled the indignance of the Union of Expressions of Inappropriate Humour; Castiel was struggling for breath as Dean stepped awkwardly toward Castiel's back, extending a hand as though he could comfort him through the ether to avoid the dreaded Emotion Virus.

"Um… hey, Cas, come on. I get that something bad happened… you can forget I ever mentioned it, you know, it's nothing… unless… unless you want to… to talk, if you think that'll… Cas?"

Castiel couldn't hold it in any longer, and found himself laughing out loud.

Dean punched him on the shoulder, and only half in the amicable way he did when they finished a show.

"What in the hell was that for? I thought you were having some kind of hysterics, or a fit or something."

"No…" Castiel gasped, between laughs. He managed to compose himself, the majority of his inappropriate expression vented the union seemed to disband, although a few chuckles continued to voice discomfort as he tried to become serious again.

"And what's so funny?"

"When you realised you were on my coat… the last time I saw a face that embarrassed was when I walked in on Sam and Gabriel…"

Dean stared at him for a moment as he tried to smother fresh fits of laughter.

After what seemed to be some intense consideration, Dean punched his arm again and sighed.

"That is not a mental image I needed to have. You know what, fine. Now I'm glad I lied to you about not having any liquor in the house, it means I can have all of it now and forget that ever happened."

Castiel finally got his laughter in check, and followed Dean through to the kitchen.

He should probably go home. He should probably make himself a filling, warming meal, read some of his book, and go to bed.

Naturally, he accepted the proffered whisky without a second thought, pausing only to reprimand himself for staring at Dean's eyes again.

He couldn't help it, he told himself, the pre-prohibition liquor draining through his empty stomach and into his blood as quickly as The Peak's gutrot had last night. Dean's eyes were… natural. Almost animal. There was something of the wolf or hawk about them; the same cold, self-sufficient sharpness that he had seen at the zoo many times. There was something thrilling about it.

Dean suggested they turn the chairs to face the fire. Castiel agreed, as the night was drawing in and it was suddenly very cold and grey, meaning the view was not as impressive or attractive.

Once they had shuffled the couch around to face away from the door, Dean had suggested they each have another drink. Castiel had agreed to that as well, as he wasn't sure he was prepared to admit to thinking about Dean's eyes or Dean's skin or Dean's muscle or the dancing firelight in the way he was on only one drink, no matter how long it had been since he'd eaten.

They drank. And talked. The topics slipped and manoeuvred easily into each other, going from the theatre to Castiel's unpainted mural, to Castiel's interest in art, to Dean's interest in carpentry and mechanics, to Castiel's complete lack of knowledge or skill in anything more technical than cooking, to a longwinded debate about whether cooking counted more as "technical" or "creative".

"It's important to have precise measurements and details. It's technical." Castiel took another drink, a slight smile on his lips. "Not very technical, but technical enough."

"No it isn't. Any joe can cook, with lessons. There's not really a "wrong" way to do it unless you kill someone." Dean drank too, his eyes lacking their harsh focus as he reached for the rapidly emptying bottle. "It's creative."

"Ah! But…" Castiel swivelled around on the couch, tucking one leg up beside him so he could point a finger triumphantly in Dean's face. "But it requires learning a technique and therefore, it's technical."

Dean went to respond, but clearly couldn't think of a good counter argument. Castiel drained his glass and held it up in victory before putting it next to Dean's and grinning in what he was pretty sure was a smug way.

"My mother told me that." He wasn't sad, or melancholy, as one would expect, but almost surprised, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

"What was she like?"

"She was… nice. Didn't see much of her, we were mostly raised by nannies." Castiel shrugged, gladly picking up the refilled glass. "She was clever, smart… but very old fashioned. Tradition was all the rage with her, more so than happiness or innovation. It was all by-the-book Christianity and morals that Queen Victoria couldn't have faulted."

Dean chuckled.

"Nothing like our mother." There was a fond sadness in his expression, his gaze switching between the burning logs and Castiel's own, slightly splifficated but none-the-less rapt eyes. "She was all about emotion and expression and finding your calling. It was after she died that our Dad tried to "undo" it all; make us good, Christian boys."

"How old were you?"

"Only about seven. It was illness that took her."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be, I'd have never joined the theatre if it wasn't for her." He took a drink, before glancing once more at Castiel. Their eyes met for a moment which could have been a second or a minute, it was hard to gauge. Just watching each other, as if they were both testing the adage that the eyes were windows to the soul. Dean smiled a warm, reassuring smile.

"How did you… if you don't mind my asking…"

"It was a shooting." Castiel wasn't sure if it was the alcohol at work, or if he really wanted to tell Dean. A part of him yearned to say it out loud; to finally tell someone, and say exactly what no one else in his family would.

"Lucien… always the dark horse of our family, we nicknamed him Lucifer." Castiel spoke slowly, staring into the fire, watching the orange flames dance over the dry bark, making it blacken and disappear as they did.

"Lucien was always in one sort of trouble or another, and we very rarely saw him. He was sent to different schools to the rest of us, had a different nanny, didn't go to college… he fell in with… with the wrong crowd. Bootleggers, mobsters… bad, criminal people. And one day, he was going about his daily business of gang warfare while my mother and several siblings were going about theirs. Anna and Rachael had just had their first holy communion, and mother had suggested we all celebrate at an ice cream parlour."

He was vaguely aware of Dean's weight shifting on the couch, but found himself oddly hypnotised by the flame, unable to look away. Perhaps he was making Dean uncomfortable, but now the words had started, Castiel didn't want to stop them.

"Balthazar and Gabriel both had work to do. Michael wasn't in town, and Joshua was ill. I agreed to accompany Rachael home to change, as she was anxious about getting her communion dress dirty. We had agreed to meet at the Ice Cream Parlour."

"Our family home is Garrison Hall, you might know it? At the end of Main Street, surrounded by pine trees. The Ice Cream Parlour was just at the other end of the street. None of us knew it was a base of operations for a bootlegging joint."

Castiel's throat felt dry, as though it was ashamed, being unaccustomed to speaking for such length with such emotion. His brain had gone curiously numb, but he felt himself continuing, losing all sense of self as he saw the images of that day flashing in front of his eyes.

"Rachael and I had just returned to Main Street when we heard the blare of gunshots echoing down towards us. Somehow… somehow, I think we knew. Although Anna was adopted, she and Rachael were raised practically as twins, and I saw her suddenly burst into tears, inconsolable with fear and sadness. We raced up towards the parlour, and found several police cars approaching with us. Some of the gang members were already being arrested. The glass window had shattered, sending shards of glass out about three feet on either side. The walls inside… I held Rachael's head so she couldn't look, couldn't… couldn't see the blood and the bullet holes. I wanted to leap through the window and find that they'd all huddled under the table, and were all safe, but I knew, even as I fought with the detective, who was dragging me away, having arrived after I had… I knew what had happened."

"The real kick in the pants, though, the absolute stinger…"

Castiel closed his eyes, turning his face away from the fire and resting his glass against his forehead, feeling his skin shrink at the sudden temperature change. He dragged his eyes open, and saw Dean, closer than he'd been before, sat right next to him, his face a troubled mask of concern and reluctant enthrallment.

"As Rachael and I were being moved away from the premises, I saw another body, in the alley beside the building. There, in a cheap suit and tie, still clutching a half-empty bottle and a tommy gun, was Lucien. I knew what had happened. He had followed orders, barged in with the other heavies, and riddled the building with bullets before he checked how many innocents were inside. It probably wasn't until he saw Anna's communion dress that he realised who else had been in there. The coward had hidden, and shot himself, rather than live and face the consequences."

Castiel had said it all without the anger or angst that descended whenever he tried to speak with family members about it. Instead, he had found himself speaking with an honest, lonely sense of heartbreak, in the manner one may speak of a lost love or a thwarted dream. Except it hurt more than that. It hurt more than he could put into words.

Dean moved closer still, stirred into action when Castiel found himself caught between a laugh and a sob. Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel's shoulders, and Castiel reciprocated, gladly.

"I'm sorry, Cas." His voice was a hoarse whisper, his hands taking the strength and definition it usually carried. "I had no idea."

"It's fine."

They sat there for a moment, Castiel finding this simple act possibly the most soothing, grounding experience he had ever had, negating the alcohol that made his head swim.

They pulled apart slightly, jaw grazing jaw as they did so, and their eyes met again.

Their faces were inches apart, and Castiel's numbed mind slowly began to stir back into life.

As he felt Dean's breath tickle his cheek and his lips, Castiel realised why he had been so fascinated and yet so uncomfortable around Dean Winchester, when he had first met him those precious weeks ago.

Castiel could not say who started the kiss, or who kissed back, but their lips had pressed against each other, strong and definite. There was no drunkenness about it. No desperation.

Just the wonderful, soothing feeling of finally being understood.

Hands gripped at hair, arms, shoulders, ribs… Dean pulled away, breathed that he didn't want to do anything unless Castiel was sure, Castiel mumbled equally breathy reassurances.

The fire quietly burned itself out in the background.

_April 9__th__, 1928_

Castiel awoke with a start, and glanced up at the wall-clock of Dean's room, illuminated by a shard of light that had flitted past the curtains. It was one thirty a.m.

Downstairs, he heard Sam whispering goodnights, and Gabriel whispering something back, and both of them telling the other to be quiet or they'd be caught.

_So much for that promise,_ Castiel thought. Then he caught sight of Dean's slumbering form next to him, and he supposed he really couldn't blame them.


	12. Chapter 12

April 9th, 1928

_(continued)_

Castiel woke to Dean's gentle kiss on his shoulder, friendly, but not so intimate as to make him uncomfortable.

"We appear…" Castiel spoke, dragging his eyes open as he sat up, "to have done a rather foolish thing."

"You really think so?" Dean was staring at him again, with those intense blue-green eyes of his. Castiel started at the flicker of worry on Dean's face, realising how it sounded.

"Not that I regret it! I don't. But… isn't there some rule somewhere about romance and work?"

"Cas." He rested a hand on either side of his face and smiled, kissing him on the forehead. "We work in the theatre. It's the one place in the world no one would mind. Hell, it's expected." Dean grinned impishly. "Believe me, some people forget how many people are around to spot you necking backstage."

Castiel leaned forward, kissing him again. The worry seemed to part like clouds of steam, dissolving into the air. But, when he pulled away, the worry returned instantly, with an almost audible smack.

"Still… perhaps we shouldn't tell anyone… or at the very least, not be obvious about it."

Dean sighed, and pushed the covers aside, getting up.

"Fine. If that's what you want…"

"Dean. Please… this isn't anything personal. I just… I'm fairly useless in relationships. If this ever got back to Gabriel…"

"Oh." Dean turned around, his trousers half on, and Castiel blushed furiously, staring quickly at his hands. If Dean did see Castiel looking, he did him the decency of not commenting. "Well, if it's about saving you from Gabriel, then that's understandable."

Dean walked back over to Castiel, his shirt on but unbuttoned, and sat next to him on the bed.

"I mean, I'm sure he's a swell guy, but I count a day where I don't have to talk to him as a good one."

Castiel chuckled.

"Gabriel can be a little… blunt, at times."

"You know, of all the words I would have used there, "blunt" was not the one I would go with. Mine would be much less polite." He nudged Castiel with his shoulder, and grinned happily, before kissing his jaw and then his neck, making Castiel forget about anything that existed outside of the bed and, joyously, he was completely fine with that. What good was the rest of the world for anyway? All it did was sit there and confuse you.

When Dean stopped taking a near sadistic amount of pleasure in how much he could tease Castiel, he moved into the bathroom, and Castiel reluctantly left the bed, touching his feet on Earth again.

_Damn gravity._

He got dressed, and noticed something interestingly familiar on Dean's dresser.

"Bathroom's free, if you want it." Dean smiled, tucking his shirt in. Castiel nodded towards the dresser.

"Is that what I think it is?"

It was Dean's turn to look flustered, which Castiel personally thought was adorable.

"I like looking at it." Dean cleared his throat. "It's… it's a good job, it seemed a shame to get rid of it once I'd finished the carpentry."

"But why is it here? In your room?"

"Because…" Dean grabbed a pair of socks from the dresser, not meeting Castiel's eyes. "I don't know. You want me to throw it out?"

"No!"

"Well then."

Castiel said nothing more on the subject, but smiled quietly to himself. He watched as Dean absent-mindedly lined the model box up just the way it had been when Castiel had noticed it. He didn't know why Dean had kept it. The paint was sloppy, the card wasn't as square as it should have been… it was amateur, at best. However, Castiel found himself noticing that the very idea that Dean had kept his model box (which, he remembered, Dean had called "perfect") to be utterly thrilling. Unable to keep his mouth shut, Castiel shrugged.

"I just think it's a shame I don't have anything of yours to keep in my bedroom."

Dean paused for a second, staring at him, and threw his other sock at Castiel. Castiel caught it, examined it, and looked at Dean.

"I had been hoping for something a little more affectionate."

Castiel left the cabin quietly, giving Dean one last kiss before agreeing to be at the theatre early. He is, to say the least, happy that he didn't have to see Sam during that morning. That would have been… uncomfortable.

He strolled happily across the town, pausing only when he reached the reception of his building, telling the receptionist and doorman that Gabriel was hereby unbanned from his presence, and if he happened to come by, please show him up immediately. When he got to his apartment, he bathed and changed, feeling inordinately… happy.

He hadn't been happy in some time. Gabriel had often suggested he wasn't allowing himself to be happy. Whatever the reason, he could see now that he had made life hard not only for himself but for those around him, and he made a mental note to seek forgiveness for that.

When he arrived at the theatre a full hour before the time he was normally expected to be there, he had presumed no one would be there. However, when he got to the door of the C.P, Dean was waiting for him, looking simultaneously amused and concerned. He grabbed Castiel's arm, and mumbled in his ear:

"Gabriel and Sam are here. I don't know what's going on, but Gabriel brought some crazy woman with her, and so far she's been far too polite and friendly. Make her go away." And with that, and the slightest graze of a kiss on his jaw, Dean left him again. Worried at what he was about to walk into, Castiel pushed open the door.

In the stalls, Gabriel was reclining across three chairs, gazing off into the distance. When Castiel entered, he sat up like a shot and ran over to his brother, eyes glinting with malice and mischief.

"Oh, you are for it! I've had an earful, Castiel, I will not stand to be treated this way!"

Castiel flinched slightly as Gabriel pointed a finger in his face.

"Dare I ask…"

"Rebecca!" Gabriel yelled, and from the stage wings came their stepmother. She was a willowy, bubbly sort of woman, not much older than Gabriel. She was not a wicked stepmother, but hardly a suitable one, Castiel had always thought. Given the recent turn of events, though, he deemed that perhaps he was in no position to judge what was "suitable".

"Are you honestly saying you told our parents on me?" Castiel rolled his eyes as Gabriel stepped back, smug grin already in place. Rebecca did not have her usual doting smile or excitable mannerisms. She seemed stern, and angry.

"Castiel. Your brother has been telling me a lot of stories about how upset he is that you won't talk to him, and how you've even had him banned from your building!"

Castiel looked down at his shoes. He was a damn sight taller than the woman, but he liked her, and didn't want her to think him arrogant.

"Now, you two have always gotten on quite well, and it upsets me to see you arguing like this. Brotherhood is supposed to be the greatest of bonds! You're supposed to be best friends; that's how it works! So I just want to know, Castiel, please tell me… What did Gabriel do to you?"

Gabriel's smug grin fell off of his face like it had been stuck on with vegetable oil.

"What? What did _I_ do to _him?_ Becky, Rebecca, what… how…"

"Gabriel, look at your track record. I'm sorry, but I doubt Castiel was the instigator."

"But I… he's the one who… He…"

"Rebecca." Castiel smiled, doing his best to look humble. "That matter's all cleared up. Gabriel is no longer banned from my building. It was a case of… I made an assumption, that's all. It's forgotten now. Isn't it?"

He raised an eyebrow at Gabriel. Gabriel, for whatever reason, was happy not to push the matter further, and nodded. They shook hands, and Becky resumed her usual state of buzzing with joy. Rebecca. Castiel had to stop calling her Becky. It was a bad habit they had all picked up from Michael. She had been at college with him. Rebecca left the theatre happily, suggesting she and their father might watch the musical t some point, if he manages to get an evening away from work. Gabriel turned to his brother.

"So that's it? We're all made up? I thought…"

"I had mistaken the situation." Castiel stated, clapping his hand on my shoulder. "I give you my blessing to… to go about your business. Just, please don't share any details with me."

Gabriel had been mid celebration when a thought seemed to strike him.

"What's made you so chipper all of a sudden? You seem positively… relaxed. Why, Castiel James Hollman, do you have a crush?"

Castiel rolled his eyes and went to the Fly Gallery ladder.

"You do! You sly cake-eater, you! You are goofy, Castiel, goofy!"

Gabriel yelled up the ladder, and, when he had wrongly assumed Castiel couldn't see him, laughed to himself, punched the air in celebration, and then run off to find Sam.

Castiel sat back from the gallery railing, smiling to himself.

He wouldn't say he was goofy.

He looked up at the blank space on the wall, and wondered again what he would paint there. Angels, maybe? Cherubim? Or just a portrait of Dean, so that, for as long as the building lasted, every Fly-man would come up into the gallery and say "wow, is he still working here?"

Well, Castiel conceded, as he noticed Dean had now supplied the gallery with a pile of blankets. Maybe he was just a little goofy.


	13. Chapter 13

_April 14__th__, 1928_

It had been five glorious days since Castiel and Dean had begun their affair, and the former would happily admit that the latter had been right. If anyone at the theatre knew about them, they didn't seem to care. If they did care, they didn't say anything, and this suited Castiel fine. He had never been in love with a man before. Whenever he was restricted to that tiny fly gallery, nestled in the theatre rafters, he suspected he had never been in love before. The upheaval of what he knew about himself was something he felt he was adapting to slowly.

He wasn't like Balthazar, who had always been a ladies' man, and no doubt would be one until he got shot by one of the jealous husbands or boyfriends of his myriad lovers.

He wasn't like Gabriel, who had long since declared that he had too much love for humanity to limit the physical expression of it to one gender.

He wasn't like Sam, who had flirted with people of both genders, but never really been able to stay with someone long enough to know what it was he liked about them.

He definitely wasn't like Dean.

The upshot of their new relationship meant that the lengthy breaks in between their cues were now much more interesting, and Castiel had managed to pry some conversation from Dean concerning his previous relationships.

Dean had been ashamed to admit that he had had many relationships, mostly with women but the odd fling or two with a man, that were purely physical and all short-lived. He had noted the distinction between sex and love.

Castiel sighed, feeling the roughness of Dean's hands against his own as they both flew the backdrop up to the rafters, on cue for a dance routine to begin. Dean leant into the area of the fly gallery Sam could see up into, and gave him a thumbs up, before quickly turning back to Castiel, pressing his hands against his face and sharing a tender kiss. Castiel blinked.

"What was that for?"

"You've got your thinking face on. You're about to drive yourself crazy with something irrelevant. Don't."

Castiel rolled his eyes, walking past Dean to pick up his paint palette. They had twenty minutes before they had to fly anything, so he thought he may as well paint a little more of the mural. Dean wrapped his arms around his waist, resting his head over Castiel's shoulder, implying he had other ideas.

"You know there's another cast and crew party on the twentieth?"

"Oh?" Castiel rolled his shoulder, irritated but not entirely averse to the way Dean's breath tickled his neck.

"It's supposed to be for the first complete week of running, but that's the closest date everyone was free."

"But that's six days late. Why not just make it a party for a two week run?"

"It's the theatre, Cas." Dean hugged him a little tighter, determined to get Castiel to smile. "If you're looking for logical behaviour, I think you might be in completely the wrong place."

Castiel relented, finally giving Dean a grudging smile, before setting the palette down. The wall had yet again escaped Castiel's artistic judgement, but he would get it, eventually.

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"We should have dinner. I want you to come over to my apartment and have dinner with me."

Dean thought about this for a moment, before nodding. Castiel knew he wouldn't turn down free food.

"Why?"

"We haven't been able to see much of each other outside of work." Castiel glanced around at their surroundings. "As cosy as the gallery is, especially now we have the blankets… I'd ike us to have dinner together."

"It wouldn't be anything to do with the fact that we get a day off tomorrow, would it?" Dean grinned at Castiel, who felt yet another blush creep up across the back of his neck.

"No. The idea hadn't even occurred to me."

It honestly hadn't, but Dean continued to grin teasingly at him. They moved to the other end of the Fly gallery, where they could see Sam's cue for the next fly, and Castiel tensed slightly.

"Would it be so bad if it was?"

"Sorry?"

"If I had wanted to spend our day off together as well. Would that be so bad?"

Dean let his hand brush against Castiel's, seeing that Sam was currently addressing a panicked chorus girl. He gripped Castiel's hand, and stared him in the eye. This was a new addition to the Dean Offensive, and Castiel didn't like it because it made argument damn near impossible.

"Can we talk about this later?"

"How much later?"

"I don't know, after the show? Just… not now. Please."

Castiel conceded, and stepped back a pace as they waited for Sam's cue, before flying the scenery back in. When they had tied the rope off, Dean had smiled at Castiel, but hadn't offered to continue the conversation.

Neither had Castiel.

The silence stretched on until ten minutes before the finale, when Dean finally seemed to have had enough.

"Don't be mad, Cas."

"I'm not mad."

"You are. You're all tense and scowly. Look, it's nothing personal. I just… if we're going to have that sort of conversation… about… spending time together and what-have-you, I'd rather we had it somewhere more comfortable and less… you know…" He motioned towards the stage. Castiel nodded, happy just to get rid of the awkward silence. "Last cue should be coming up."

They had their last flying cue of the show, and then they were stuck in the Fly gallery for the next twenty minutes. Castiel, over the last few days, come to like those twenty minutes the best out of the entire evening. Mostly because he and Dean were left pretty much to themselves, and today was no exception.

As they lay on the blankets, wrapped in each other's arms, Dean holding Castiel as they half-watched the end of the play together, Castiel gave his partner a slight pinch.

"We do need to talk." He was whispering.

"We will." Dean whispered back, but didn't sound too certain. "I'm not giving you bull, Cas, we'll talk about spending time together and our crazy problems. It means a lot to you, so I'm not going to hide from it. But… I'll need time to sort myself out for it. I'm not exactly the best person when it comes to talking about anything more than whether you want to cash or check."

"What?"

"Cash or check." Dean repeated, as though it made perfect sense. When he realised Castiel didn't understand him, he grinned, and looked away.

"It means do you want to kiss now or later."

"Oh." Castiel moved a little closer, happy just to be there. "Well, cash, then. But you've been spending too much time around Gabriel."

Dean obliged, leaning in and kissing him, making their fly gallery nest feel, for a moment, that much higher and further away from everybody else, with their lies and arguments and petty troubles. Castiel smiled as Dean pulled away, but Dean was not so impressed.

"Thanks for that, while we're on the subject. Now _your_ brother's constantly at _my_ house, not only being his regular annoying self, but also groping Sam every time he thinks I can't see them."

Castiel's smile didn't falter for a second.

"Which is why I asked you to dinner at mine."

The curtain fell, to rounds of applause.


	14. Chapter 14

_April 15__th__, 1928_

Castiel spent the entire day tidying and cooking, and not being worried. He hadn't had company, not formally, for some time, and yet here he was, surprisingly relaxed in his preparation.

This worried him.

He received a phone call from Gabriel at the worst possible time, when his hands were wet from washing dishes and the timer was informing him he had but a few scant minutes before the dishes that were lurking in the oven would be demanding his attention. He knew it was Gabriel even before he'd picked up the receiver, since who else would have such shockingly bad timing?

"Castiel! I was about to hang up, what took you so long?"

"Hello, Gabriel… I was in the middle off something."

"A particularly enthralling letter to the local newspaper, I'm sure."

He almost wished he could tell Gabriel about his relationship with Dean. For one thing, Gabriel was without a doubt the best cook of the family, and Castiel (who was completely flummoxed by the lists of herbs and spices he'd never bothered with previously,) could have done with some sage advice (no pun intended). The other reason Castiel wouldn't have minded telling Gabriel about his new relationship is that it would have knocked the smug grin off of his face for a few minutes.

Even though Gabriel was on the phone, Castiel knew damn well his brother had an insufferably smug grin on his face, because that was now his default setting. The setting was labelled "I have a boyfriend and you don't", and it did the impossible. It made Gabriel more annoying.

"How is spinsterhood treating you, sister dear?"

"What do you want, Gabriel?"

"Our father has gotten too interested in my love-life, and has sent out dear Becky to do his snooping for him. If she calls…?"

"I have neither seen hide nor hair of you. I didn't even know you were in a relationship. I certainly didn't discover the two of you acting very inappropriately in a men's washroom."

"Now you're on the trolley."

"I must say, Gabriel, I find lying to Rebecca, and by extension our Father, to be unwise. It's not exactly…"

"Mm-hm, you raise a valid point, now excuse me, will you, I have to see why the writer's so intent on talking to me before I can go ravish my Assistant Stage Manager."

Gabriel hung up. Castiel counted to ten, and then remembered he was supposed to be in the kitchen. At least he had something to worry about, now.

Dean arrived at six, looking awkwardly out of place in the richly decorated apartment building. He looked like he was afraid his very presence might break something. Castiel let him in and closed the door, taking Dean's coat and hanging it up carefully. Dean stopped to watch him.

"It's not expensive or anything."

"No. But it's yours, so I'm not going to treat it improperly."

They watched each other for a moment, Dean staring at Castiel like he'd spoken a foreign language, Castiel looking at Dean and wondering why he seemed so intent on being treated poorly.

Dean cleared his throat, shaking the moment aside, and came back with his impish grin.

"So what's for dinner?"

"It's just the two courses, I'm afraid." Castiel shrugged, awkwardly, leading the way through to the kitchen. "I'm not much of a cook."

"You're probably better than me." Dean smiled at him. "Sam's the cook in our family."

"Well… he and Gabriel have something in common then."

"Other than the fact that they both have fantastically attractive brothers?"

Castiel felt that horrible blush creep over him again, and glared at Dean. He was doing it on purpose, he had to be.

They ate chicken and ice cream, both prepared following a recipe taken from the kitchens of the Waldorf hotel. Castiel was pretty sure the Waldorf hotel did it better, but it was edible, if nothing else. They moved into the living room.

"Can we talk, now?"

"We've been talking all evening, Cas."

"No, I mean… Can we talk? About us."

"Oh… uh…" Dean was clearly uncomfortable, but he nodded. "Actually… aren't you worried your brother might burst through the door and see us?"

"Hardly." Castiel chuckled, sitting himself on the couch. Dean sat next to him, their knees touching. "If he were to barge in, you could just stand over there by the window and I doubt he'd even notice you."

"Really? He's that afraid of heights that he won't look at a window?"

"Yes, really. It would almost be sweet, if he wasn't so infuriating."

Dean laughed, and wrapped his arm around Castiel. Castiel shifted his weight, not at all minding it.

"Why's he so against heights?"

"It started when we were children. Michael used to get so frustrated with him, but mother would tell him off if he was mean to any of us, as we were younger than him. So, whenever Gabriel became annoying, he would simply lift him up and sit him on top of one of the bookshelves."

Dean found this hilarious, if his barks of laughter were anything to go by. Castiel smiled, leant forward, and kissed him; a gentle graze of lips, a soft contact, and then parting. It was more than enough to get Dean's attention.

"Dean."

"Alright. Yes. Enough bushwa." He suddenly seemed very young, and nervous. Very fidgety. It was like the strong confident man Castiel had first met was only in control half the time; it was a scared, lonely child who was in control of Dean's emotions.

"I like you, Castiel. I'd like to spend as much time with you as possible. But…"

"But?"

"But… I don't know, I'm just… I'm used to having a few necking sessions, and then when one doesn't want the other around anymore, they tell them to ankle. That's how it's always been with me."

Castiel fought back the urge to ask if that's how it was with Dean's father, but he knew enough about his life to guess it was and know it was better not to point that out. Instead, he nodded, and patted Dean's hand.

"Well, I'm happy with you being here. I don't see how that's any different."

"Please, Castiel. You're sitting pretty up here; your life needs a commitment. I doubt your dad will be so happy…"

"As long as I'm in a monogamous relationship, my father could care less. The bar for debauchery is set between Gabriel and Balthazar, with Lucien being the only one to pass it. He has Michael and Joshua for grandchildren… legitimate Grandchildren, anyway."

Dean levelled Cas a less than believing stare. Castiel shrugged.

"It comes to something when I am one of the more socially well-adjusted members of my family."

Dean laughed at this, running a hand over his eyes. Castiel gripped his knee.

"I'm not about to push you away, Dean. I admit, I would like more of you, I would like a commitment, but I'm happy enough just to be with you. If something grows out of our time together, then let it grow."

"Sounds like a sneaky plan, if you ask me." Dean grinned, wrapping an arm around Castiel's waist once more. "Get me ball-and-chained while I'm looking the other way."

"I would nev…"

Castiel trailed off as Dean pulled him into a kiss, much deeper and far less chaste than the delicate brush of lips Castiel had used to get Dean's attention. Turnabout, it seems, is fair play. When Dean broke away, he was grinning.

"`Let it grow`, hmm? With words like that, you should be a poet."

"I doubt it." Castiel smiled.

"Or a playwright." Dean poked him slightly, back to his favourite game of tickling and teasing Castiel, who was smaller and stood little chance of fending him off. "You couldn't do any worse than the trite rubbish we're producing now."

Castiel laughed, wriggling out of Dean's grasp, only for Dean to grab him around the waist and pull him back down onto the couch.

They kissed and cuddled, discussing playwrights, work, music, the mural that would possibly never get painted, the dinner, what to do with their day off tomorrow, and, most importantly, trading embarrassing stories about their brothers, to use as blackmail potential at a later date.

They talked until it was so late, it was all they could do to tumble into bed, half dressed and marvellously elated. And, well, if talk grew from there of attending the cast and crew party as a couple, or quietly going public among their friends, and if any necking, petting or nookie grew out of such a conversation, it is really not for the chronicler to say.


	15. Chapter 15

_April 16th_

Castiel enjoyed sleeping. He enjoyed lying in that state between wake and sleep, where your mind is only marginally more active than your body, and you hold the best chance you'll have all day of being completely at ease. It was with this in mind that Castiel rolled his shoulders, in an attempt to further cocoon himself in equal parts pillow, comforter, and Dean's arms. He closed his eyes, and let relaxation wash over him.

When he woke again, Dean was already getting dressed.

"Morning."

"Good morning. Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, I just… couldn't sleep."

Castiel may have been socially awkward, at times (staring, mumbling, speaking too little, speaking too much, misjudging personal space and not always picking up on subtext, to name the attributes he had been informed he had) but he was neither blind nor brain-dead, and so he raised his eyebrows at Dean.

"That's all?"

"Yes, that's all." Dean snapped slightly, before screwing his eyes shut and pinching his nose. He took a deep breath, before looking up at Castiel.

"Sorry. Just… nothing. Nothing for you to worry about. I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, I guess."

"Well then, tell me in future, and I'll let you sleep on this side."

Dean gave Castiel a quick glance, his brows furrowed.

"It was a joke."

Dean nodded, resuming his dressing.

"I would never give up my side of the bed."

Dean stopped and glared at Castiel, attempting to convey how it wasn't funny, but the smile that was pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth betrayed him. Castiel allowed himself a small smile, before reaching out to Dean. Whatever had made him so tense seemed to visually lift as he approached Castiel, taking his outstretched hand and rubbing a thumb over the back of it, staring down at him.

"Tell me." Castiel paused to kiss Dean's hand, enjoying the way he could make the muscles in his arm tense from the mere act. "Are those trousers half on or half off?"

"Depends how much you want breakfast."

"I thought we could go out for breakfast." Castiel smiled, turning Dean's hand over and kissing the pulse point at the wrist. "If you still like the idea of going public."

"Absolutely."

Dean leant in, towering over Castiel, and kissed him. Castiel craned his neck to meet the kiss, and after a moment he let himself be pushed back onto the pillows and onto the bed.

He decided that, as much as he loved sleeping, sleeping with Dean was better.

Castiel relished in the brush of cotton sheets and Dean's hands, in soft pillows and soft kisses, and in the warmth of the comforter, and the warmth of their bodies, together.

He wanted to tell Dean this, to say out loud how he felt, but he knew it would have made Dean uncomfortable. His lover, ironically, did not deal in love. He dealt in feelings and passions, but not in commitments. So, Castiel did the only thing he could. He showed it in small gestures and physical acts and, if he did say so himself, making him voice the filthiest sounds Castiel had ever heard. Sure, being able to say "love" without fearing your partner would drive off a cliff would be swell, but Castiel didn't mind making do with what he could get. Especially for sounds like that.

(-*-)

The bakery was a ten minute drive from Castiel's building. He hadn't needed to tell Dean which bakery, because everyone at the C.P. knew there was only one bakery worth mentioning. The reasons for choosing it as a breakfast place were twofold; first, it would make sense for Gabriel to be one of the first they told about their relationship, since he had been through so much and was technically responsible for their meeting. Second, Mr. Jerrard continued his tradition of making excellent baked goods for any occasion by creating possibly the best apple turnovers in the state, every morning.

They were, however, not the only couple to delight in the concept of apple-baked goodness.

"Castiel! And… Dean…" Gabriel looked up from the small table he and Sam were sharing, sugar-studded pastry forgotten about an inch from his lips. He blushed for a moment, looking at Sam.

"We were just discussing… no, wait. We're allowed to, heck, we're supposed to be here together, what are you two doing here?"

Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the other and glanced at the floor. Sam instantly broke into a grin.

"I know that look! Dean, you didn't?"

Dean glared at his brother, before conceding a grudging smile. Castiel felt the smile spread across his own face as Dean slowly wrapped their hands together, interlocking fingers.

Sam had leapt to his feet and was clapping Castiel on the back, laughing with Dean. Gabriel had sat very still.

Castiel blinked, suddenly very aware that, no matter how small and annoying he could be, Gabriel was still his older brother, and there was still that fraternal desire for acceptance, equal parts love and fear.

Gabriel stood, slowly, holding his hand up to command silence.

"You hypocrite."

He stared up at Castiel, his eyes void of their usual mischievous warmth.

"I cannot believe you would be so hypocritical as to threaten removing me completely from your life…"

"Gabriel…"

"Just because I got a Winchester brother first."

Quick as a whip, he grabbed a beautifully iced cupcake from the counter top and pushed it into Castiel's face.

When Castiel recovered from the shock enough to scrape icing form his eyes, Gabriel was grinning once more.

"You sly dog, Castiel. You owe me big time. I set them up, you know." He spoke to Sam, before turning and addressing Mr Jerrard, who was watching them with a smirk on his face.

"I set them up! See, do I know people, or do I…"

Gabriel was cut off as Castiel scraped the icing from his cheek and smeared it over his brother's face.

Gabriel, for his part, didn't seem to mind it.

(-*-)

_April 17__th_

To say the crew at the C.P. took the news of the fly-men being a couple in a mixed reaction would be putting it lightly. Some cheered and congratulated, some refused to believe it, some didn't particularly care one way or the other, and others cursed themselves for not getting one of the fly-men first. Castiel was bolstered by the at best, flattering, and at worst, indifferent reactions, feeling beautifully, serenely happy. Dean seemed a little uncomfortable with it at first, but he was still happy to curl up in the Fly gallery with his Cas, making sure to prove that he could be romantically involved with a co-worker and not forfeit his professionalism.

_April 18__th_

"Another show done with. Gabriel's holding a dinner party tonight, something to do with the writer being mad at him. Should we go?"

Dean didn't move from his chair in the Fly gallery.

"You know, you can go, if you want. I, um, have some plans. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes… Yes, see you tomorrow."

_April 19__th_

There had never been a more silent, more awkward atmosphere from the Fly gallery. Castiel breached the silence after the curtain fell for intermission.

"Are we still going to the party together?"

"Hmm?"

"The party. Tomorrow."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure. Hey, you can come home with me after work tonight, we'll have dinner."

"Really?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"What, Cas?"

"No, it's nothing. Never mind. I'd love to have dinner. Can I stay the night?"

"Uh, I would love you to, but… I'm going to have to get moving really early in the morning, and I'd hate to… you know."

Castiel nodded, and dropped the conversation.

He didn't know. He honestly didn't.


	16. Chapter 16

_April 20__th__ , 1928_

Gabriel had been surly and distracted, calling Castiel twice during the day, demanding to know where his brother was and why he wasn't a better help. Castiel had both times pointed out to him that, as he was talking on the apartment's telephone, he was of course in the apartment. He had asked if Gabriel needed him to be somewhere else, and what it was that was bothering him, but Gabriel had ranted something indecipherable and hung up.

Castiel decided he'd go about his day, and only begin to care when Gabriel began to make sense. He had more important things to worry about, anyway. Things like Dean Winchester.

At some point, Castiel liked to think, he would eventually reach a level of existence where Dean Winchester was no longer something for him to worry about, but he knew that today was not that day. He had only known the man for, what… a month or so?

Well, technically, they had known each other for thirty one days. Not that he had counted them.

In thirty one days, Castiel had seen Dean as an unsettling, intoxicating, confusing mess of a man, who had had come to… what? Did he love him? He thought so. Did he want to spend time with him? Did he want to take care of him? Did he want to fit his entire life around this one man, with his cars and his job and his unhealthy amounts of emotional repression?

Yes.

He had already let the man into his life; the radio played even now, as Castiel sat staring into his coffee. He'd never much bothered with the radio, but Dean had convinced him.

Bessie Smith sang her long, moaning wail, and Castiel began to see the cathartic appeal. He was taken back to that day with the model boxes, seeing Dean clamber out from under his car, in the gentle spring heat. Remembered feeling the uncomfortable tingle of warmth as he found himself staring at the man's well-muscled chest, and the tense anticipation as he had waited for Dean's approval.

Bessie continued to tell her mournful tale over the slow strands of music. Castiel let his head fall back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

God, but he loved Dean Winchester.

Who, apparently, had already started to lose the novelty of their relationship.

What other reason was there for the way he'd been acting?

Maybe he felt he'd made a mistake. Maybe his discomfort with betraying his father's opinions was still strong, even now, as a grown man, living miles away from his family.

Maybe Castiel was just another futz.

Bessie finished her song, and Castiel slowly turned to raise his mug of coffee to the radio. She was about right; this "love" business was not all it was cracked up to be.

(-*-)

The show was… average, at best. Gabriel, who usually prowled the backstage area before a show to joke, laugh and generally raise everyone's energy, was conspicuously absent. Sam, who usually made sure everyone was comfortable and happy before they started the show, looked sickly and nervous. Castiel understood, after asking one of the chorus girls, that Gabriel had turned up to open the theatre, yelled at anyone who asked him whether he was ok or not, and left without explaining anything.

Crowley was in a foul mood too, even for him, and was making sure to point out how he despised everyone. This was bad, and incredibly unprofessional, because it seriously impeded on the confidence of the performers and stage hands, and so impacted on their work.

But Castiel was very, very glad of it. A minute or so before curtain up, he had heard Crowley having a heated argument with Dean. When Dean took his place in the fly gallery, they flew their first cue and, knowing they had five minutes before their next cue, Dean had spun round and slammed his lips into Castiel's in an angry, heated onslaught of pressing lips and brushing tongues.

Admittedly, in hindsight, Castiel felt he should have protested, demanded why Dean had decided to toy with him so. But he didn't, partly for bewilderment, and partly because Dean knew exactly how to make Castiel's insides melt. And that was how they spent the show; they would complete their cue, Dean would practically slam Castiel up against the wall in the domineering manner of a Pack Alpha marking his territory, they would break apart again just long enough to complete their next cue. By the twenty minute point, before the end of the show, Castiel was aroused, confused, ecstatic and more than a little sore. Dean smiled at him, but it was a hollow movement, a mere stretching of lips.

"Did you bring a change of clothes this time?"

Castiel nodded, breathless. Dean let his smile drop.

"Why don't you go get changed now? The music will cover the sounds of the ladder."

And that was it.

Did Castiel rally against his tempestuous lover? Did he demand to know what the hell Dean thought he was playing at, turning his back on Castiel so casually? Did he, at the very least, suggest they both go and change, and continue what they started?

No.

Like a dutiful, indentured serf, he nodded and quietly made his way to one of the changing rooms, doing his best not to disturb anyone. He was visited by the voice that had been quiet and content for some while.

"_Wonderful. I hope you feel bad about yourself. This is the first functional relationship you've had since your mother's death, and you're letting him lead you about like a damn puppy. Or a sheep. You are a sickening social failure, you know that?"_

Under the mental barrage of self-hate, he changed into his evening suit and debated the benefits of slamming his head against a wall.

(-*-)

The entire cast and crew of the C.P theatre promenaded towards the Pinnacle, taking no great efforts to hide their mission statement. Mr. Singer had been forewarned, and was still in the hardware store when they arrived. Castiel laughed and joked politely with the people who walked with him, and greeted the members of the production crew who had decided to join them (although Ellen confessed she had been waiting for a reason to go back and speak with Mr Singer once more) but it didn't improve his mood any. Dean was as distant and changeable as he had been all week, one moment smiling and laughing, the next, withdrawn and introvert.

As they reached the Peak, Castiel happened to be in a good position to speak with Sam without many people overhearing.

"Sam."

"Castiel! Listen… do you know what's going on with Gabriel?"

"No… I was about to ask you if you knew why Dean is acting so strangely."

"Oh… no…"

There was a pause.

"I think our brothers are keeping secrets from us."

Sam laughed, raising his eyebrows. He smirked a little, as if what Castiel had said was such a keen, cutting observation that it surprised him.

"Yeah, you could say that."

It was at that point that Gabriel barged through the crowd, made a beeline for the bar, doubled back to grab Sam's wrist, and glared at Castiel.

"I'll deal with you later."

Castiel had no idea what he had done to upset his brother, but for whatever reason, Gabriel's foul mood cleared a path, as everyone decided it was best not to approach the surly producer and backed off. Castiel watched Sam be dragged over to the bar, where they spoke in hushed tones.

"Castiel." The voice behind him was a familiar one, although he'd never much spoken to the owner. He turned to smile politely, covering his scowl.

"Meg."

Meg had her hair unfashionably long, for her role in the play. But, as if to compensate for it, she had an overly fashionable dress which was short and blinding. She smiled thinly at him.

"One week. Isn't it swell?"

"Yes, well done." He cleared his throat. Meg was an actress, and that was about all you needed to tell anyone. Any stereotype or rumour about actresses that immediately sprang to mind pretty much summed up Meg. That, and the fact that she was smug, vindictive and aloof. Castiel was not overly keen on her.

"How are you?" She seemed determined to trap him in conversation. He was much more keen on the idea of finding Dean. "How's Dean?"

"We're both well, thank you. Excuse me, I need to…" He trailed off and left, not having the prepared mentality to decide on a lie. He didn't much care if Meg, of all people found him rude.

(-*-)

The evening was barely a half hour in, and Castiel had been snared into polite conversation by quite a few people, but had yet to manage to hold Dean down in a conversation for any length of time. It was as the band stirred up to play The Charleston that Castiel saw his moment. Dean had moved back towards the bar, to give people room to dance, and Castiel decided it was now or never.

"Dean. We need to talk."

"Not now, Cas." Dean was irritable and on the offensive, but Castiel would not be deterred. He'd just about had his fill.

"Yes, now. "Now", because I know we'd never talk if I didn't make you talk. What is the matter? Why have you been so…"

Dean turned his glare on Castiel, the stern, unwavering glare making Castiel oddly terrified, as though standing on a weakened board many miles above ground level.

"You can't just leave it alone, can you? You have to pry. For god's sake, have a drink and relax." So saying he ordered two drinks. Castiel stared at him like he had gone mad.

"Dean… I'm worried about you. IS that alright, am I allowed to be worried, or does that contradict some code of emotional misconduct you've drawn up for yourself?"

Dean slammed his fist on the bar.

"Fine. You really want to do this here? Now?"

"Yes. I want to know what's wrong. I want to know why you've been treating me so poorly over the last few days."

"Tell me, Castiel, are you blind, deaf, or just stupid?"

"Dean…"

"You have no idea, do you? No clue…"

Dean was interrupted as, further along the bar, Gabriel stood on top of his stool. He climbed onto the bar, wavering and clearly drunk. He threw his glass to the floor, the smash drawing silent attention from the few people who hadn't noticed him already. Everyone was focused on him.

"I'd just like to tell you all that you are the best cast and crew the C.P. theatre has ever had. The fact that you are the only ones is irrelevant."

"Gabriel." Sam was reaching for Gabriel's hand. Gabriel pulled away from the bigger man.

"I am so sorry to break this news to you now, but the inconsiderate son of a bitch didn't even let me know until eight o'clock this evening… I'm afraid our writer received a better offer from Broadway a week ago." Gabriel was slurring, but sincere. He sounded angry and betrayed. The last time Castiel had seen his brother in such a state was shortly after the funerals of their family.

"Gabriel," Sam tried again. "Please…"

"In a minute, Sammy, everyone has to hear this. The writer was offered a run in Broadway a week ago, and today he signed an exclusive contract. You hear that? Exclusive. Which means that tonight was the last performance…"

No one said anything. The crowd held perfectly still, watching Gabriel with confused eyes. Gabriel looked back at them, pained and mournful.

"I'm sorry, cats. I tried. I tried hard for him to give us just a little more time, but Whoopee is no longer ours. We'll be breaking the law if we perform it now. Of course." He pulled himself up again, anger returning to his eyes.

"Of course, some of you knew all about this. Some of you were picked out, and have been on buddy-buddy terms with the turncoat ever since day one of rehearsals. So to those of you who are going with him, I say good luck, and you better hope your new employer never asks me for a reference. As for the rest of you… I'm sorry to cut into your drinking time, and I may call you if I ever find another play to stage. Good night."

With that, Gabriel staggered back down into Sam's arms, looking curiously vulnerable and defeated.

Castiel turned to Dean, the rest of the world slipping away into darkness. It was very unlike the pleasurable sensation of the world fading and fraying away which he tended to experience when he and Dean were alone together. This was the feeling of everything around them being enveloped in a dark haze as he watched Dean's emotionless eyes turn on him.

"I'm going to New York." He spoke quietly, but Castiel heard him just fine under the growing hubbub as people panicked. "I'll be gone by the end of the month."


	17. Chapter 17

_April 21__st__, 1928_

Castiel stood, reeling slightly as the world continued to be eaten by the dark haze. He felt very cold. His breaths were short and sharp in his chest. Everything seemed like it had changed size; nothing was comfortable any more.

No. No, he just… he can't have heard right.

"Dean…"

Dean held his gaze for a moment more, his eyes heavy with sorrow.

"I've already agreed, Cas. He talked to me about it on the first day of rehearsals, but I didn't think he was actually going to get anywhere with it."

Dean trailed off, shrugging and turning away.

Castiel felt the bottom of his stomach fall out. His tongue seemed too big for his mouth, his throat too dry, his limbs too heavy. Castiel was lost.

"But… I don't… you couldn't have told me?"

"I didn't know, Castiel. I only found out when it was too late."

"Too late?" Castiel repeated, the words sitting over the situation like a final, teetering mass; the last weight that threatened to topple the already precarious situation. "What do you mean, too late?"

"Oh, don't… I didn't mean it that way."

"No, you said "too late". What do you mean?"

"I just… I wouldn't have started all this if I knew I was going away, Cas."

"But you did know. You said yourself; it's always been a possibility. And you just didn't tell me?"

"I didn't mean to get this involved." Dean slammed his glass down on the bar, and pulled himself up to his full height. "Why do you think I've been sneaking off early, or trying to avoid dates? I didn't want to get attached, Cas. It was supposed to be casual."

"I was supposed to be a fling."

"I didn't say that."

"Deny it, then."

Castiel stared at Dean, his jaw set. He was biting back emotion, if only to deny the other man the satisfaction of seeing him break. Dean stared back, unreadable and cryptic as when they'd first met.

Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and left. Castiel practically staggered over to lean against the bar, his own heart screaming at him, trying to tear itself free. His breath still refused to get any deeper, shuddering and shallow, as the dark envelope continued to eat away at the corners of his world. He felt a hand on his shoulder, not even bringing himself to turn around.

"Don't worry, bunny." Meg hissed into his ear. "I'll take good care of him in the big city."

Castiel straightened up quickly, everything tense. He found himself clenching his fists so much his nails dug into the flesh of his hands. He'd never had to restrain himself from hitting a woman before, and the flare of sheer anger seemed to scare him. Meg looked, for a moment, surprised, but then flashed an insincere smile and left. Castiel, his emotional crises threatening to roll over him like a tidal wave at any minute, decided his services would be best used helping Sam take Gabriel home. Lord knows, they all needed to sleep.

(-*-)

The chronicler feels, with no small amount of regret, that perhaps the story has been weighted unfairly in the bias of Castiel's perceptions. Perhaps, to give a fair and balanced account of the events in and around the C.P. theatre, it would have been kinder to tell Dean's side of the story. But then, on seeing the inconsolable well of sadness spread through Castiel, bubbling to the surface the moment he closed the door to his apartment…

On seeing the young man pull cushions from the couch just to channel his otherwise impotent anger, before sinking to the floor…

On seeing him throw his sketchbook into the fireplace and burn it…

The chronicler feels that, if there is one thing Dean Winchester needed to learn, it is exactly what Castiel would want to do, if he were ever given the chance. To understand, admit to and encourage the presence of Dean Winchester's emotions is what one man needs and the other man wants and, ironically, is what will keep them apart.

(-*-)

_1__st__ May, 1928_

"Yes, calling for Mr C. Hollman?"

"…" Sam listened intently, judging by Gabriel's expression what the person on the other end of the phone was saying.

"I know that, that's why I'm calling him… You haven't seen him at all?"

"…" Sam gripped Gabriel's hand, as he puffed out his cheeks, looking so very tired. No one had seen or heard from Castiel in nearly two weeks. Gabriel had taken the whole thing very badly, which made Sam worried for him.

"Well, may I leave a message for him?"

"…"

"Alright, tell him… If you could tell him that Sam has elected to stay with me, and any time he chooses to visit we will be more than happy to see him. Tell him… Dean's selling the cabin. Tell him we're all very concerned, and we send him our love. Thank you. Good day."

Gabriel hung up, running a hand over his face and then pressing against his eyes.

"He'll be alright." Sam soothed, standing up and wrapping his arms around his partner. Gabriel hugged back, but his limbs were heavy and his voice was still clogged with tiredness. He gave an almost ironic, bitter huff of laughter.

"I'm not so sure… This is just what happened after the funerals… it took him three months to allow visitors again. He's a very quiet person, Sam. He doesn't do well with people leaving, especially not like this."

He broke the hug, running a hand through his hair and leaving the room.

"I know he's your brother and everything, but I can't help thinking he's a monster to treat Castiel this way."

Sam didn't know what to think. Yes, his brother was an emotionally repressed fool, who tended to believe that if he didn't acknowledge something, the problem would sort itself out. But usually he was at least logical enough to know that someone could get hurt and empathetic enough to give a damn. He hadn't been able to talk to Dean at all, since the disaster of a party. Dean had busied himself with meaningless, mundane tasks, and refused to listen to any mention of the theatre or any member of the Hollman family. He wanted to believe his brother acted with good intentions, but that would be a lot easier if he wasn't acting so aloof.

"Do you want anything to eat or drink?" Gabriel called through from the kitchen.

"Yes, I'll be out there in a minute." Sam stared around the front room of Gabriel's townhouse, wondering what, if anything, they could do.

(-*-)

_26__th__ May, 1928_

Balthazar was the only person Castiel knew in the area who had his own car. He also knew that Balthazar wouldn't pressure him to talk as much as Gabriel would. It was ten in the morning when he rang his brother, asking for a favour. Balthazar agreed, more out of the relief of knowing that Castiel was still alive than through any consideration of the consequences.

By seven in the evening, Balthazar arrived at Gabriel's townhouse, a grim look on his face. He explained that Castiel had moved back into their family home, with Rebecca, and their father, and Rachael, who was currently home from boarding school.

Gabriel continued to worry.

(-*-)

_27__th__ May, 1928_

"It's not so bad." Balthazar shrugged, having spent the night since he didn't wish to drive out of town again. "At least now he'll have someone checking in on him. You know Rebecca won't let him waste away like he did last time."

"But he's not…" Gabriel waved his arms, throwing himself down on the couch. "He won't do anything. He won't even try to get over it if he's got father and Becky fussing over him."

Sam stared out of the window, thoughtful.

"Maybe we can do something."

"Oh do tell, Sherlock." Gabriel had gotten snappy lately, the result of many sleepless nights and unreturned phone calls.

"You said yourself, he's best when he's got something to focus on. A project, like the theatre?"

"Yes, that sounds like dear Castiel." Balthazar sighed, massaging his temples. "Unless he has something to obsess over, he spends time thinking about himself, and we all know how dangerous that can be."

"Maybe we need to find a project for him." Sam turned away from the window, smiling awkwardly as Gabriel stared at him.

"You're a genius. I love your brain, you know that? The fact that it's attached to a baby grand is a benefit, but…"

"Gabriel, where do you get all that slang from?" Balthazar turned in his seat, staring at his brother. "You do it purposefully to annoy everyone, don't you?"

"Apple-sauce." Gabriel stood, aiming a half-hearted kick at Balthazar's feet as he walked towards Sam. "You love me for it just as much as Sam does."

Sam quietly shook his head.

(-*-)

_1__st__ June, 1928_

"He can't avoid us forever." Balthazar leant back in one of the arm chairs, relaxing in the luxury of his father's house. Rebecca poured cups of coffee for her step-sons, glancing nervously around the room.

"He won't tell us what it is that's upset him." She sighed, glancing at Gabriel. "He won't tell us anything. He just acts like nothing's happened."

"Oh…" Gabriel waved a vague hand, exchanging a brief glance with Balthazar. "A falling out with a close friend. Deception, abandonment… It's all triggered a bit of a relapse, that's all."

Rachael entered the room and sat on the couch next to Rebecca, an uncomfortable false smile on her lips.

"He says he won't come down. He says he's busy."

"Well fine then." Gabriel sat up, adjusting his jacket. "If he chooses to ignore our offers of company, then that's his choice. Rachael." He stood, bowing slightly as his eyes shone. "It's been a year or so since we actually spent any quality time together. May I ask if you would like to accompany me to a charming little patisserie I know?"

Rachael smiled, always flattered by any attention from her elder brothers. She took his extended arm, and they wandered off, chattering inanely about her schooling and the theatre.

Balthazar sipped from his coffee.

"Has he said anything about a man named Dean Winchester?"

"No…" Becky thought for a moment. "He's said nothing about the theatre at all… why, is this Mr. Winchester someone special?"

"No." Balthazar sighed, staring out over the sun drenched gardens he just knew Castiel would be blocking out. "Not any more."


	18. Chapter 18

_6__th__ June, 1928_

"Gabriel, what am I doing here?"

"Oh come on, Castiel, don't be a pill!"  
>"Rachael! Speak correctly; you don't wish to sound like Gabriel."<p>

"Oh hush." Gabriel smacked Castiel on the arm, opening the door for Rachael and pointing Castiel inside. "You'll actually be able to answer any questions she has. I'm just the key holder. Go inside."

Castiel continued to hesitate.

"In."

Gabriel pointed again, before dragging Castiel in to the theatre.

Castiel sighed, looking around the space of the C.P. He felt guilty. It wasn't the building's fault Dean Winchester was an insensitive monster.

"Can I see backstage?" Rachael's eyes shone with wonder, and Castiel grudgingly took her hand, directing her to the backstage. Gabriel smiled, following along behind them, hands deep in his pockets. Castiel didn't know why Rachael had suddenly taken such a shine to the theatre, but for three days she had nagged him incessantly about giving her a tour, and then on the fourth day she had teamed up with Gabriel. Sometimes, just sometimes, Castiel truly despised his siblings.

The backstage tour came to a halt by the fly gallery ladder.

"What's up there?" Rachael smiled.

"It's the fly gallery, where you operate the system that lifts scenery in and out of the stage."

"May we see it?"

Castiel grudgingly allowed Rachael to climb the ladder, and followed after her. Gabriel elected to stay on the ground.

When they reached the fly gallery, he flicked on the small lamp that occupied the corner, and looked around.

It was completely bare. The blankets and chairs had gone, and the dust was beginning to settle. Soon, it would look as lonely and forgotten as it had on the day of the get-in. Castiel ran his hands over the railing as Rachael examined the rope system. Her voice was quiet, but calm, leading him out of his reverie.

"This is amazing… you can see everything up here."

"Yes."

"It must have been so much fun to sit up here and watch everything unfold beneath you."

Castiel sighed. He didn't know what Gabriel had told her, and he wasn't sure he liked the idea of his little sister hinting at his current emotional breakdown. Yes, he knew he was handling things badly. He just didn't care enough to put a stop to it. Part of him felt attracted to the idea of wasting away and fading from everyone's minds; part of him felt it was all he could hope for.

"Yes." He answered simply. "It was."

"Would you do it again?"

She looked at him, the purest innocence in her eyes. That was something he'd always marvelled at with Rachael; she said exactly what she meant and nothing more. A question was always just that question, never implying or nudging at any other topic. He was grateful for that.

"I suppose." He nodded. "It's amazing how you get used to seeing everything from above, how you begin to hear time passing…" His face hurt. Why was his jaw so tense?

Rachael stood next to him, leaning against the railing and staring out over the stage. For a moment, she seemed deep in thought.

"I think I might write plays."

"As a profession?"

"Yes. I've got only a year left of school, and I can't see myself enjoying college… not the sorts of courses they let girls enrol for, anyway. I certainly don't want to marry anyone just yet. I could write plays."

"One year?" Castiel cocked his head, thinking. "That's not possible. You only had your first communion four years ago."

"It wasn't first communion, Castiel. It was confirmation. I was thirteen."

Castiel stopped, scanning back through his memories, determining that she must be right. His jaw ached again, muscles stiff.

"I don't know why I had it in my head that you were so much younger… Ow…" He mumbled, rubbing his jaw.

"Pain?"

"My face…"

"It's because you're smiling, brother. You're out of practice." She gave him a wry smile, before descending the ladder. Castiel reeled slightly from the fresh perspective that had just slapped him in the face.

(-*-)

The sun was slowly beginning to set over the gardens at Garrison Hall, the clouds sweeping in to cover the spreading mauve, as though determined to preserve the azure sky for just a moment longer. The effect was simply breath-taking, and somehow, in her infinite wisdom, nature managed to do what none of the Hollman family had managed, in all their teasing, pleading and tempting. Gabriel had to force himself to play it cool as he saw Castiel, sat on the patio, sketching onto writing paper with an array of coloured pencils, his hands flying to describe the vista before time changed it. He had the radio with him and everything.

Gabriel put his hands in his pockets and steeled himself for the best performance of his life as he wandered over to his younger brother, noting the smile on his lips like it was no big thing.

"Never had you pegged as a music man." Gabriel sank into the chair next to him. Castiel didn't look away from the sunset.

"I wasn't. But… somehow, I find I can't draw without it, now."

Gabriel nodded, watching his brother's hands work.

"I've always admired your creativity, Castiel. You know that?"

"Oh, hush."

"No, I mean it! Honest and true. You can draw, you can plan, you're good with words… Well, I got in on that one too, but it's more a case of how I speak than what I say."

"True." Castiel slipped into what Gabriel was sure was a rueful grin, if only for a moment. "I will always remember that school report that declared you `able to talk the hind legs off a donkey`."

"`And then convince it to carry me home`, yes, that was one of my better years." Gabriel smiled. "But, I can talk, I can scheme… I'm an organiser, someone who manipulates and controls… I've never been much at creating things."

"Maybe you should try." Castiel smiled, more at his picture than Gabriel. "It all comes with practice. You know, Rachael's intending to write plays?"

"Really? I shall have to talk to her about that…" He looked out over the slowly dwindling sunset, crossing his legs and sighing. "She'll be done with school this time next year. Hey, there's a thought. Maybe if I buy her a house, she'll sign over all production rights of any plays she creates exclusively to myself and the C.P."

"That seems like bribery… and an unfair deal." Castiel smirked as Gabriel shrugged, pulling his "we can work out the details later" face.

"Didn't you have a sketchbook for things like that?" Gabriel nodded at the two sheets of writing paper Castiel was drawing on. "It must have been better quality."

"I… lost it. In the move."

"Ah." Gabriel said, willing to accept the lie for now. "We shall have to get you a new one."

They lapsed into silence for a moment, before Gabriel checked his watch, and stood.

"Must be getting back, Sam's probably bored out of his skull… oh, Sam says hello, by the by. He wishes you'd come over for dinner and chat with him. He has this bizarre theory that he should get to know my family."

"Blackmail material." Castiel mumbled, another almost-smirk on his lips.

"Apparently… apparently the writer balled up his schedule. "Whoopee" won't be on Broadway until December."

"Oh." Castiel said, simply. Nothing else, except for a slight tension around his shoulders. Gabriel, figuring he'd be leaving in a few minutes anyway, decided to take the plunge.

"You know, I have a town-house in New York. You could always… go and talk to him."

Castiel finished his drawing with a definite stroke, gathered up his sheets of paper and pencils and stood. He was stony-eyed once more as he walked past Gabriel.

"I think I've done enough talking for the foreseeable future. I've got nothing left to say."

(-*-)

_15__th__ June, 1928_

The letter was type-set, and signed with a flourish. It joined the assorted contracts in a document folder which Gabriel promptly tucked under his arm.

It was devious. Nefarious. A twisted little scheme which he was very proud of, if he said so himself.

Convincing Ellen to buy the cabin had been the hard part, not that she lost out at all, since Gabriel bought it off her straight away, and paid her extra for her trouble. It was the fact that she required explanation as to why Dean would probably be against selling to anyone with the Hollman name on their bank account. He had left out some of the more public-scandal inducing details, but Ellen had probably figured it out. Damn shrewd woman.

He took a deep breath of the city air, glad to have some sort of a plan.

What first?

Tell Sam that the plan was in motion?

Possibly.

Tell Sam that they could take the day off and make a little nookie?

Very tempting.

Tell Rachael he'd secured her a place to live to be self sufficient after her schooling finished?

Not as tempting as the previous option…

No, he knew exactly what to do. In order, he would undertake options one, two, three, secret option four (buy an incredibly large cake or two from Jerrards and celebrate with both his sister and his lover), and then tomorrow, he could start on option five.

(-*-)

_16__th__ June, 1928_

"Castiel? Are you awake?"

Castiel blinked awake, stretching blearily and stumbling into his robe.

"Yes, Rebecca, just a moment."

"Gabriel's waiting for you in the hall. He says he needs to speak with you."

Castiel sighed.

"Wonderful…"

He pulled his robe around himself, and took his time in getting to his bedroom door. Sure enough, when he eventually summoned the courage to reach the top of the stairs and look down into the hall, Gabriel stood in a casual morning suit, clutching a sketchbook, a shining new tin of pencils, and a case of watercolours for good measure. On spotting Castiel's bedraggled, sleepy form, he had a look on his face that would be sheepish if you ignored the mischievous glint in his eye.

"Castiel. Brother dearest. How would you like another shot at architectural design?"


	19. Chapter 19

_17__th__ June, 1928_

Castiel has often considered the amazing power of language. For instance, how such a small word as "no" can be the difference between succeeding and failing, and, more importantly, can be near impossible to say.

Especially to annoying elder brothers and deceptively sweet younger sisters.

"This is cruel." He sighed for the fourteenth time, now really more as an attempt at a mantra than in the hopes they might actually listen to him. "Cruel and unusual punishment, when I haven't even done anything wrong."

"Oh, Castiel!" Rachael tutted, as she dragged him out of the car. Balthazar stepped out of the driver's seat and raised an eyebrow.

"Not bad… not bad at all. So, Gabriel, where's my cabin?"

"Please." Gabriel rolled his eyes. "This is an investment. Rachael's creativity will blossom in all this fresh air and beautiful scenery. You, brother, would be a complete money-sink."

"Charming. Last time I give you a ride anywhere."

Castiel said nothing, but stared dolefully up at the cabin which squatted innocently on the hillside, minding its own business. Only Gabriel would buy the cabin that had belonged to his brother's ex-lover, then ask said brother to redesign it for their younger sister. No other human being in the world could get away with being so tactless.

"Look, if you don't like it, go spend another ten years in England." Gabriel sneered, wrapping his arms around Sam's waist. All were grateful Sam had agreed to meet them there; with the four Hollmans, Sam's giant frame would not have fitted in Balthazar's car. He smiled greeting to them as Gabriel shot a petulant glare at Balthazar. "I would so love the chance to miss you."

"Stop bickering." Rachael tutted again, plucking at Castiel's sleeve. "I want to see! Come on, let's look, let's go inside."

Gabriel grinned, and threw her the house keys, watching as she caught them. She opened the door slowly, relishing this as the first time she opened the door to her first house.

The inside was just as Castiel remembered it, except still. Quiet and empty.

Most of the furnishings were still there, but somehow, with the four of them crowding just inside the door, the cabin seemed so hollow.

Castiel's eyes roved around the quiet, dusty living room, taking in the space. The ghosts of memories played through it, shadows that filled his heart with a bittersweet longing. His eyes fell on the couch.

"Yeah, that has to go." Gabriel broke the silence, following Castiel's gaze. Castiel had to fight back a shudder, but conceded that, given what he knew that couch had seen (let alone what Gabriel knew it had seen) it was probably best to throw it out.

So that was where they started.

Sam and Balthazar went through all the furnishings, deciding on which items to keep and which to dispose of, moving them into respective piles outside and covering the "keep" pile with a tarpaulin. Rachael and Gabriel were tasked with removing the bits of scrap and junk that had accumulated in the back yard. Castiel wandered between the house and the garden, stopping to note down or sketch possible ideas. He could look past the Winchester possessions, and the memories, if he tried, and could see it just as a space. A continuous zone of canvas to mark as his own. He wasn't happy that he had yet again been dragged into one of Gabriel's projects against his will, but he could make it work for him.

(-*-)

_24__th__ June, 1928_

"This one." Rachael was definite. She had spent hours scrutinising the different sketches, comparing one against the other. After days of drawing, revising, colouring, revising, scrapping and beginning again, Castiel had come up with three final designs for the cabin, and it seemed Rachael had finally made her decision.

"We might have to do a lot of the work ourselves." Castiel cleared his throat, hovering over her shoulder. "Sam said he would help us with most of the building work, he has enough experience. Painting and decorating though…"

"It will be fun!" Rachael waved his concerns away. "Won't it be so much better to make it our own?"

"If you want." Castiel wasn't so sure how "fun" it would be, but the way Rachael smiled made him reluctant to turn it down. "We'd be spending a lot of time there."

"Castiel, thank you! It's going to look so pretty when it's done."

She held up the single sheet of paper, tracing her fingers over the design. Castiel smiled, gently resting a hand on her shoulder.

(-*-)

_4__th__ July, 1928_

"Oh, wow."

The flame pit crackled happily on the porch, flirting with the burgers and hot dogs as evening slowly crept in around them.

"Told you so." Gabriel purred sleepily as he nestled further into Sam's side. Sam chuckled, shielding his lover from the summer chill with a tender hug as he stared out from his corner of the bench. They had managed to separate long enough to allow Gabriel to attend the traditional 4th of July Hollman family dinner. Now that the few members of their family who they knew would disapprove of Gabriel's male lover (read: their father, Michael, Raphael and Rebecca) had declined invitation to go to the cabin, they were making up for time apart. Joshua was staring out over the slowly growing lights of the city, a loving smile on his face.

"You were right. A man could get used to a view like this."

"Or a woman." Rachael handed him a glass of lemonade, smiling.

If Lucien had earned the name of Lucifer for being the devil of the family, Joshua deserved to be called Jehovah. If you claimed not to like him, then you hadn't met him. When regaled with the epic tale of the Cat's Pyjama's theatre, Joshua had merely looked from Gabriel to Castiel, smiled, and intoned that _"Perhaps it was for the best. This "Dean" sounds like a kind soul, but there are some people who need to love themselves before they can truly be happy with another."_ Just hearing his brother's voice had calmed Castiel, but now as he thought about what had been said, he wasn't sure precisely who the statement had been aimed at.

"Girl." Balthazar corrected, from his position by the barbecue, poking half heartedly at the burgers. "You're my little sister; you won't be a woman 'til you're at least twenty five."

"Aww, look at you." Gabriel teased, almost disturbingly relaxed at this point. "Getting all protective. Better late than never." He wriggled further into Sam's hug.

He was practically horizontal as he reclined into Sam's side, his eyes near closed and his voice a sleepy drawl. At this rate, he could be asleep before the main event.

"You two really are sickening." Balthazar scoffed, sipping from his lemonade. "Aren't they sickening? Please, someone, join me in my scorn!"

"I think it's sweet." Rachael shrugged, smoothing her dress as she sat on the porch.

"I have to admit, Gabriel…" Joshua smiled, tearing his eyes away from the view. "I don't think I've ever seen you so content."

Gabriel chuckled, his eyes closed. Sam grinned, a slight embarrassed flush taking to his cheeks. He looked around for a change of subject.

"Castiel? Are you ok?"

Castiel had been watching the scene quietly, leaning against the door frame. Somewhere in his mind, behind his concerns with Joshua's earlier statement, the idea stirred that it felt weird to be up at the cabin without any intention of building or plastering or painting. It felt weird to just be there as a family.

He had been watching them all without moving, but with troubled and thoughtful eyes. He missed Dean.

Every time he looked at Sam and Gabriel, his heart ached a little, thinking about what he had lost. But then, it was better this than to have them tip-toeing around him, treating him like a child. He had loved Dean, he knew that now, but if Dean hadn't left, then this tight-knit band of family would never have come together.

"Do you think they're having fireworks in New York?"

Gabriel looked up at this, scrutinising his brother. There was concern in his eyes, and a deep, powerful honesty which made him look so much older than he was. It reminded Castiel that, regardless of what he said or how he acted, Gabriel still cared for his younger siblings. Possibly more than Michael and Raphael, given their distant attitudes. After a while, he spoke.

"Probably. But they don't have this view. Or those burgers, which are going to start burning soon."

"Shit!" Balthazar leapt into action, prying the food from the grill and transferring it all over to much kinder, more forgiving buns. The food was passed around, and the energy seemed to pick up again.

"Mm!" Gabriel pointed, still midway through a mouthful of food. He got to his feet. "Look!"

There it was. The reason they had come all the way out to the cabin and stood out in the cold all evening.

A single, streaking firework shot up from the valley below them, trailing through the sky before shattering into a million shards of gold.

After a pause, it was followed by more, from different places throughout the city. They flew up through the sky, dancing, flying around the bowl of the city beneath them. Why choose which show to go to when they could sit up here and watch all of them?

Joshua's eyes shone as the light of the fireworks shot through the sky. Rachael sat with her notebook, scribbling down as she glanced from the sky to the page. Even Balthazar let his guard of cynicism slip, looking for a moment full of childlike glee. Sam and Gabriel whispered to each other as they stared out at the rainbow lightning. Castiel looked around at them, and around at the house that he was designing, that he was making special.

His family.

His friends.

His creation.

"Happy Independence Day." He said, his mouth twitching into a smile. He glanced at Joshua, who smiled back at him. Independence was the key.

(-*-)

_20__th__ July, 1928_

One month.

It had been a month of calling in favours, of straining and spraining muscles, of losing tempers and muttering humble apologies.

In that month, Castiel fell down the stairs and there was a terrifying half hour where everyone had thought he'd fractured his knee, before the doctor had reassured them it was merely sprained.

In that month, Sam and Gabriel had been through their first proper argument, which had very nearly threatened to end their entire relationship, simply because Gabriel had put up paper on the wrong wall and then spilled wallpaper paste on Sam. They had made up, profusely, of course, after two days of sullen, over-dramatic heartbreak, but the memory was there.

In that month, Joshua had spent every weekend tending to the back yard, and turning it from a neglected, extended garage into a beautiful, ranging lawn. He had taught Rachael how to tend and care for it, and she was fast becoming green thumbed.

In that month, Castiel had fallen in love with croquet.

In that month, Castiel had spent more time washing paint and plaster from his skin and hair than he'd ever even considered possible.

But they had finished it. The entire house was cleaned, re-designed, decorated and ready for Rachael to move in.

It was sleek. It was stylish. It was simultaneously modern and fashionable, but had a nice, timeless sort of edge to it. It was the perfect writer's retreat for a young woman… and any of her brothers who decided to stop by.

He was proud, so very proud. Not because they managed to do it, and not because it was his design, but because he had done it all, assigned roles, and run an efficient job. He had overseen every decision, and he had done it all without any help from his father, without any help from his brothers, and without any help from Dean.

He still thought about Dean. He still thought back to times in the theatre or times when they were alone, wondering if he could have done or said anything differently. If he could have made a difference.

He wondered how Dean was taking to New York. He wondered if Meg had gotten her claws into him yet. A small, petty part of him wondered if she might have been trampled to death by the crowds of people who flocked there.

When they had finished, Rachael had declared she was going to move all of her things in immediately, and stay there for the remainder of the summer. She decreed that she was determined to get her own taste of self-sufficiency.

None of the brothers had pointed out that, with her living off of an allowance given to her by their father, and with Rebecca checking in every other day, "self-sufficiency" might have been a bit strong. Castiel was happy to let it slide. After all, he knew how important being independent was.

As they moved in the last few boxes of Rachael's things, he saw Sam watching him from where he leant against the doorframe.

"How are you?"

"Fine, thank you." Castiel straightened up, mildly uncomfortable under the scrutinising gaze Sam was giving him. "How are you?"

"Me? I'm fine. You seem to be doing better, lately."

"Well… working on the house has helped. How…" He cleared his throat, realising he found it hard to say the name out loud. "How is Dean?"

Sam blinked back surprise.

"He was alright, last we spoke. He's going a little spare, up in the city on his own. I've said he should come down and stay until he's needed in December, but… he won't listen."

Castiel's lips twitched.

"That's hardly surprising."

Sam laughed, sounding almost reluctant.

"Would you see him? If he came back?"

Castiel looked down, suddenly finding it very hard to look at anything other than Rachael's boxes. For a while, neither of them moved.

"I don't know." The words slipped out, and Castiel got the distinct impression that if he thought about them too hard, he might scare them away. "I don't know that he would want to see me in the first place. Our parting was hardly dignified. I miss him. I do, I miss him sorely, but I think a part of me has grown to accept that perhaps I needed him too dearly to appreciate what we had at the time. If he were here… I would always be willing to see him, to speak to him, even if he weren't willing to speak with me. I care for him as a friend, beyond caring for him as a… lover."

Sam seemed, for a moment, to look a little uncomfortable. He cleared his throat, pushed off the doorframe, and scratched the back of his neck, only managing to hold Castiel's eyes for moments at a time.

"For what it's worth, I really can't believe he treated you like that. I mean, I know he didn't mean to hurt you, but… he's stubborn, he's pig headed, and I'd thought that maybe for once he wouldn't sabotage himself. You're a good man, Castiel. And, for what it's worth, I think you've come out of this the better man."

Castiel cocked his head to the side, considering.

"Thank you, Sam. It means a lot."

"Well… don't mention it." He shrugged, smiling awkwardly. "Anyway. Gabriel's throwing a dinner party of some sort in a couple of weeks. Can we count you in?"

"Of course." Castiel smiled. "Thank you."

Sam flashed another awkward smile, and left. Castiel stood for a moment, left in Rachael's cabin with his own words. He was surprised to note that every one of them was true.


	20. Chapter 20

_6__th__ August, 1928_

Castiel climbed the steps to Gabriel's apartment, and was greeted by an armful of ex-costume mistress.

"Good… evening, Ellen."

"Castiel, how are you? It's been too long!"

"Yes… well… Ellen, could you let me get inside, please?"

"Oh gosh, yes, I'll take your coat."

"Thank you…"

Castiel looked around Gabriel's townhouse, interested to see crepe streamers and banners pinned to the walls.

"Oh Christ, you're going to have to refill my drink." A familiar voice drifted through from the dining room, where Ellen was now leading Castiel. Around the table sat Sam, Balthazar, Gabriel, Mr Singer, and, with alcohol filling his glass, Crowley.

"Good evening, everyone." Castiel spoke, sitting as far away from Crowley as possible.

"Fantastic, everyone's here." Gabriel left Crowley to pour his own drink, something which he seemed all too ready to take advantage of. Their host slapped Castiel genially on the arm, moving through to the kitchen to retrieve the food.

"So." Ellen smiled, making an effort to keep the energy up. "How's everyone been?"

"Can't complain." Crowley gave a wicked grin. "It's not like directing is my only job, after all. God bless the times we live in, eh?"

"Really?" Balthazar sniffed, reclining in his seat. "What else do you do, to keep such expensive tastes afloat?"

"I deal in stocks, mostly. Clear sailing and nothing but profit."

"Well, we'll see how long that lasts." Mr Singer grumbled quietly, so that Castiel only just caught it. Then, louder; "What's for dinner?"

It was at that point that Gabriel returned, laden down with food and plates. As soon as the food was served, conversation came easily, even to the point where Crowley and Castiel laughed over the same anecdotes. By the time they got to dessert (an alcoholic lemon and lime jelly with ice cream), everyone was surprisingly comfortable.

"So, Gabriel, is there any point this evening where you're going to tell us exactly what this evening is in aide of?" Balthazar waved his spoon through the air, gesturing to the streamers on the walls. Gabriel smirked the custom smirk of his, and rested a hand on Sam's shoulder.

"Will you say it, or will I?"

"Someone, please, put us out of our damn misery." Crowley grumbled, unhappy with the point at which Gabriel had stopped serving (i.e.: before Crowley had gotten any jelly). Gabriel merely shot Crowley an even smarmier look, before moving his hand down Sam's arm until their fingers interlocked.

"We felt we should celebrate it with the people who were there at the beginning, so… Sam and I are now officially exclusive."

"Oh, boys!" Ellen gasped, practically cheering. Mr Singer grumbled a "congratulations" that didn't begrudge any details, but didn't ask for any more information. Balthazar raised his glass, and Crowley huffed something sarcastic before giving up on waiting and grabbing the serving spoon himself.

Castiel raised his glass, but his cheer was slightly superficial.

"_How nice for them."_

After that, Castiel withdrew again. He was polite, of course, and waved aside any concerns, but he was still quiet.

Ellen and Mr Singer were the first to leave. After that, everyone agreed they should probably follow suit. It was as he was fetching his coat that Castiel felt a shove against his shoulder. He turned to see Crowley. The man looked like he was imparting some great secret.

"Don't do this to them."

"Excuse me?"

"It's sad and all, really, tragic, the way that dunderhead treated you, but that's no reason to rain on their parade."

"I'm sure I don't…"

"Don't give me that." Crowley waved a finger in Castiel's face, not so much aggressive as frustrated. "You had your chances, you could have taken them, and you didn't. Admittedly, the ones you did take didn't go particularly well, but either way it's no fault of theirs."

Crowley glanced around, as if making sure no one could see this display of an emotion that almost began to come somewhere near a vague resemblance of compassion.

"You're a newcomer to the world of theatre, so let me spell it out for you. This is one of the few professions in the world where no one gives a damn about your personal life, and you can actually live without ridiculous limitations. No one's stopped you, you know, from actually doing anything. Like going to see him or writing to him or anything like that. You've just let it go. So if you want to wallow in your pity, go right ahead, but I had thought that your family meant more to you."

Castiel honestly didn't know what to say.

Crowley just sneered, reached past him and grabbed his coat. As the man was about to leave, Castiel cleared his throat.

"Thank you. I needed to hear that."

Crowley seemed lost for a moment, as though being thanked was not something he was used to. He shrugged.

"In case you care… I spoke to him. Back in April, on the last day."

Crowley leant against the door frame, holding his hat in his hands, glancing up at Castiel.

"I knew the writer had been snooping around to find a crew to take to New York with him. He'd poached a few of the actors, even asked me himself, but I'd told him to take a long walk off a tall cliff. I'm not a fan of New York; it's much too… obvious. But that's beside the point. The point is, I'd heard rumours, put them all together, and realised the situation between the two of you. Possibly better than either of you did at the time. Before curtain up, I… well "talked" perhaps isn't the right word. "Shouted", maybe."

Castiel thought back, and could dimly recall having heard an argument.

"I pointed out to him that if he had no intention of doing right by you, then he should really let you get on with your life. He didn't take to kindly to that."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because, Castiel, you could make a good name for yourself in the theatre. You're a quick learner, you take initiative and you remember details, but you have a lot to learn about in terms of people. Dean loved you, Castiel, more than he's willing to admit. I've worked with him before, I've seen him futz around with plenty of poor saps, but you're the only one he'd ever defend."

Crowley placed his hat on his head, and reached for the doorknob.

"And, well, if he happens to find reason to move back here before he gets snapped up by Broadway… I won't begrudge myself a little benefit."

With that, Crowley shut the door and wandered off into the night. Castiel could just hear the sounds of him humming one of the songs from the musical.

He stood for a moment, perfectly still, staring at the door as this new information flew around his brain, finding somewhere to connect to. Then, he turned, wished Sam and his brother a more convincing congratulations, and left.

(-*-)

_15__th__ August, 1928_

Castiel leafed through the manuscript, his heart brimming with pride. Rachael hovered nervously at his side.

"I've been adding to it every day. It's… it's only really a draft, it needs to be finished, but…"

"I'll look through it." Castiel promised.

Rachael continued to hover.

"It will be easier to read without you breathing on my shoulder like that, Rachael."

"Sorry…"

"I believe Rebecca was looking forward to seeing you, perhaps you should say hello."

"Right." Rachael darted off. Castiel picked up the manuscript again, reading the neatly printed title. "Murder at Moonlight Cabin." His first note was to change the title.

(-*-)

_1__st__ September, 1928_

Steam filled the station as people came and departed. Rachael hugged each of her brothers once more, and even Sam, who had agreed to accompany them to the station. Her cases had already been bundled onto the train, and now she was saying weepy goodbyes before she returned to boarding school.

Everyone waved as the train hefted itself out of the station, leaving Sam, Gabriel, Joshua, Balthazar and Castiel to wonder where they could meet or what they could do, now that Rachael was no longer being her dynamic self.

As they wandered through the train station, Gabriel sighed.

"No more weekends at the cabin. What shall we do with ourselves?"

"You could always get a job." Joshua smiled, chuckling at Gabriel's obvious distaste.

"I do not intend to get a job, nor will I let my dear beau here lower himself to menial labour."

Balthazar snorted, muttering something Castiel couldn't hear, but Gabriel punched him for it, so he could guess the most of it.

"You could start looking for a new play. For the CP." Sam shrugged, burying his hands in his pockets.

"I could." Gabriel nodded. "Anyone have any ideas?"

"Actually, Rachael asked me to give this to you." Castiel adopted an almost smile, and produced the manuscript from his briefcase. Gabriel stared at him with wide, astounded eyes.

"`The Moonlight Murders`… Castiel, how long have you had this?"

"That particular draft? Oh, since this morning. I had to check it didn't need any further revisions." His lips twitched in another almost smile and he continued on with Joshua, leaving Balthazar, Sam and Gabriel all flummoxed as he hummed quietly to himself.

"_Love me or leave me, and let me be lonely,_

_You won't believe me, but I love you only,_

_I'd rather be lonely than happy with somebody else…"_

(-*-)

_3__rd__ September, 1928_

"Rachael wrote this?" The manuscript was being waved under Castiel's nose, which he found particularly annoying at such an early hour.

"I helped, a little."

"But… I… Castiel, Agatha Christie would be proud of this! How is this possible? Why am I only getting it now?"

"If I say it's due to your buying her that retreat, will you leave me to eat my breakfast in peace?"

"Breakfast? There's no time for breakfast, Castiel, you have to come up with a set design for this now, do you hear me? Now!"

"Rebecca…"

"Gabriel, please give your brother his toast back."

"Ugh. Fine."


	21. Chapter 21

_12__th__ September, 1928_

It rained in New York. The city was grey and rain-slicked, its windows shining as lightning demanded attention, commanding that the mere mortals pay the storm its proper respect.

"_One, two, three, four…"_

Thunder tumbled across the sky, tumultuous noise like a tin man falling down stairs.

There were four miles, then, between the storm and The Man Who Hated New York City.

He pressed along the grey sidewalk, hands in pockets, clothes heavy and sagging with the water they took on. His hair was slick to his scalp, as he had no hat. He had left it at the café, and so here he was, hat-less and mournful.

The Man Who Hated New York City stared with dead eyes at the world around him, women with umbrellas darting to their appointments, men with newspapers ducking their heads and lost within themselves. He saw them all and cared for none of them, as the relentless stream of raindrops beat him into the sidewalk. When he reached his hotel room, he peeled off his wet clothes, changed into pyjamas and sat on the bed.

For a moment, he stared accusatively at the window, so constantly assaulted with water that he could make out only grey blurs outside. With one quick, deft movement, he grabbed the pen and notepad on the bedside table and settled back against the headboard, legs extended over the pillows.

The etiquette of letter writing returned easily from his distant schoolyard memories, and he scribed the sender's address, date and recipient's address without hesitation. The first line caused a little struggle, but he pressed on.

"_Dear Cas."_

The Man who Hated New York City lifted the pen from the paper, and stared at the expanse of weave below it. Unmarked, without so much as a line or a splatter of ink. His gaze drifted once more to the rain-streaked window. Without having to look, he tore the page free of the notepad, crumpled it into a ball, and threw it into the waste basket.

These actions were as routine as dinner in the hotel restaurant, as much a ritual as his brushing teeth before washing his face, and about as enjoyable as being kicked in the stomach.

He knew what he wanted to say.

"_I wish you could have met the producer who's put everything on hold. I think you could talk some sense into him."_

"_I keep talking to you, as if you're going to answer. It's as if part of me forgets you're not here."_

"_I found a job today, repairing rich people's cars. The pay's not much, but it's something to do until December."_

"_Every day I wake up and find some new way to pass the time until I can sleep again. It's ridiculously boring."  
><em>

"_I hate it here. I hate the people, I hate the buildings, I hate the food… there is not a thing here I like."_

"_Have you found someone else?"_

"_Every day I sit here and try to write you a letter. Why the hell should I? You've made no effort to talk to me, and I know you haven't because Sam tries hard not to mention you in his letters."_

"_Sam's letters about Gabriel sicken me. Good luck putting up with that."_

"_There are so many buildings here I know you'd love to see."_

"_I think I nearly got in a fight with a mobster this evening. I could have beaten him, though."_

"_I was stupid."_

"_I miss you."_

"_I'm sorry."_

The Man Who Hated New York City sighed, rubbing his hands over his face, and slumped back against his headboard. The phone on his bedside table rang.

"Hello?"

"Good afternoon, Mr Winchester, you have a call here at reception. Shall I connect you?"

The Man Who Hated New York City blinked for a moment, collecting his thoughts. He agreed, and held for a moment as the call was connected. He found it darkly amusing to recall that he had a name once. There had been a time when he wasn't known as the Man Who Hated New York City. There had been a time when people smiled at him, and called him Dean.

(-*-)

_14__th__ September, 1928_

Dean had never been one for displays of emotion, but he couldn't help hugging his brother as the younger Winchester loped awkwardly into the hotel lobby.

"Sammy! Thank God, I've been dying of boredom."

"Will you ever stop calling me that?" Sam sighed, but hugged his brother all the same. "Come on, let's find some place to eat, I'm starving."

"Aren't you going to check in?"

"No." Sam smiled, already turning back towards the door. "Gabriel's got a townhouse here, too. He rents it out, but the tenants are away at the moment so we're staying there."

Sam smiled at said nothing more, but the sentiment that he hoped they wouldn't stay long anyway was implied.

They wandered around to central park, where mothers and nannies oversaw children as they played in the sunshine. Dean looked as though he was trying his best not to be offended by the pleasant weather.

"So how is everyone?"

"We're all doing fine." Sam smiled, hands in his pockets. "Gabriel has a new play to put on at the C.P, so he's trying to gather a production crew together for that."

"Yeah?" Dean suddenly felt his throat go very dry. They stopped at a park bench, sitting quietly.

"We could use a carpenter." Sam hinted at, the concept of subtlety a foreign one. "And a production manager…"

"Well, I'll see if I can find any contacts for you."

Sam rolled his eyes, Dean's evasiveness not surprising him in the least.

"You should come back. Everyone misses you."

"Everyone?" Dean snorted, staring out over the park.

"Yeah, Dean. Everyone." Sam let his statement sit for a moment, before shaking his head. "Fine. What have you been doing?"

They swapped stories for a while, chatting and laughing. Eventually, Sam ran a hand through his hair.

"Do you want a pretzel or something? I'm hungry."

"No, thanks."

Sam stood and wandered vaguely off in the direction of some food carts, leaving Dean to sit by himself amid the quiet chatter of the park.

"Is this seat free?"

The familiar voice forced Dean to cringe, but he made no effort to stop the other man from sitting next to him.

"Have I just been tricked into an emotional confrontation?"

"You should be grateful. Gabriel's first plan was to lock us both in a cab and pay the driver not to let us out."

Castiel sat next to Dean, pulling his coat tight around him.

"There's a cold wind…"

"Why are you here?"

Castiel blinked.

"I want to speak with you."

"Ok." Dean shifted, immediately on the offensive. "So speak."

"Dean… we could really use you back at the theatre. I think you would enjoy the project."

"Really?" Dean looked over at Castiel. "That's it? You came all the way out here to this god-forsaken city just to say you thought I would enjoy the project?"

"Well, no." Castiel bristled, thrown off by Dean's aggressiveness. He was looking for a reason not to feel guilty, just as Sam had guessed he would. "I wanted to see you Dean. To make sure you were well."

Dean made a sweeping gesture with his hands and glared at Castiel.

"I'm alive, aren't I?"

Castiel remembered what Sam had told him on their train ride to New York; "Sometimes, Dean doesn't know what's good for him, or he does and is just too stubborn to admit it. Don't let him make you think he's better off than he is".

Castiel cleared his throat and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"I don't know why you're acting like the wronged party, Dean. Frankly, I find it a little insulting. But I came here to tell you that I love you. I've changed a lot, since you left, and realised there was a lot about myself that was unhealthy."

He stood.

"I've changed my life a lot, and I appreciate that you might have never been seriously invested in our relationship in the first place. I love you, and I can't help it. I just thought that, if I never said it, I'd always wonder `what if`."

Dean sat, for a moment, watching him. Castiel raised his eyebrows, rolling his shoulders in a sort of shrug. It became clear that Castiel didn't really know what else to say.

Dean stood, staring at the ground as he shoved past Castiel's shoulder on his way towards the exit.

"That's it?" Castiel grabbed the other man's shoulder, but he shrugged it off. Castiel followed him. "Nothing? Our time together meant so little… Hell, _I_ meant so little to you that you can just leave without saying anything?"

"You don't love me." Dean barely looked over his shoulder. "I was just an exciting little project who was there when you needed it. That's all it was."

"That is not true, Dean." Castiel tried to stop him again, but his hand was shrugged off just as quickly. "Dean! If I didn't love you then why would I be here? Why would I come all the way out here to talk to you? Why would I be putting up with your infuriating behaviour?"

They were getting closer to the city now, and Castiel knew he was about to lose Dean once more. A sudden pang of fear and terror shot though Castiel as he suddenly felt the dread of going through heartbreak again. In a sharp, instinctive moment, he had grabbed Dean's shirtfront and pulled him aside from the street, into an alley beside an apartment building. The sudden act of force surprised both of them, but whatever savage power had formed in Castiel wasn't satisfied yet.

"You are a mess! Why can't you just admit that you're a decent man? That someone might love you? Why can't you accept that your life might actually be going well for once, that your job could be safe, that you could have a decent relationship with someone who isn't your brother? Your father isn't…"

"My father is nothing to do with this!" Dean snapped, his face set in anger. "Look, just… it was nothing, ok? It was a little fun, it was nice, but it was nothing more than that and that's it."

Castiel watched Dean, completely motionless. Dean could almost feel the weight of his words as they fell into the space between them.

"I don't believe you."

"Just… go home. Get on with your life."

"I don't believe you!"

"Look, we've both lost people, we've both lived through that, but you can…"

"You ass!" Castiel's voice was dangerously low, and Dean wasn't sure whether the other man was more likely to hit him or burst into tears. "You are a complete bastard ass. I can't stand you."

Castiel stepped towards him, his eyes cold.

"I can't stand that even here, even after I've come here and bared my heart to you, you can't admit your own feelings. I can't stand that you would rather stay here in New York, where I can feel how miserable you are… I can feel how utterly sad and lonely you are, but you still won't swallow your damn pride and admit that you feel anything. The world wears on us all, Dean. Sam isn't relying on you any more. You're allowed to be sad, or lonely, or tired, Dean, and I know you feel that way. You're allowed to. But I'm here, and I'm asking you to please just come home with us. Just… I want you, Dean. I love you, and I care about you, but if you're so pig-headed that you'll stay in this city, which I know you hate…"

"How do you know anything?"

"Because it's obvious, Dean! Just look at you! You've lost weight, your clothes don't fit, I can feel the waves of sadness rolling off you… you look tired, Dean. You look so tired. But fine." Castiel held up his hands, glaring once more at Dean. "If you're so far gone that you believe your own bullshit, I won't trouble you any further. Have a wonderful life."

"Wait, Cas…" He started after the other man, but Castiel shook his head.

"No. You either come home, stick with me and try to be happy for once in your life, or you never see me again. I can't cope with the idea of seeing you and knowing I can't have you. Our train leaves tomorrow at one."

Castiel turned and left.

Dean didn't go back to the park. He was fairly sure Sam wouldn't still be there. He trudged around the block once or twice, his mood swinging between blind anger and morose self-pity, before he trudged back into the hotel. He was about to trudge past reception and go straight to his room, when the receptionist spotted him.

"Mr Winchester?"

He spun on his heel, hoping it was something that would distract him.

"Your brother… a Mr Sam Winchester? He left something here for you; he said to tell you he found it when they were emptying out the cabin."

"Oh." Dean nodded, feeling even more depressed. As if he needed mementos. "Ok."

"Here." She reached below the desk, producing what looked like a black cardboard box. Confused, he picked it up and examined it. He bit back a scowl as he realised what it was.

"Yeah… thanks."

He took Castiel's model box up to his room, and sat it by the window. He caught his own reflection in the glass as the sky outside darkened.

He did look tired.


	22. Chapter 22

**A.N.: A brief pause here to say thank you so much to all the lovely reviews I've been getting for this story. It really makes me happy to know people enjoy reading this. But enough of my guff, let's get to the words you came here for.**

(-*-)

_14__th__ September, 1928_

_(continued)_

Gabriel sat in the bed, back against the headboard, his arms crossed. He made no movement or sound as Sam changed out of his clothes except for a continuous drumming of his fingers against the crook of his elbow. Sam's face creased in concern.

"Are you ok?"

Gabriel said nothing, but continued to drum his fingers against his elbow, staring into the distance. His face was clouded with thought, which Sam had learned was a dangerous expression. He slipped carefully between the sheets and wrapped an arm around his lover's shoulders.

"Gabriel?"

"I'm sick of it." Gabriel snapped, as if being jolted back into action. "If it isn't your brother being psychotically afraid of happiness, it's my brother being ludicrously emotionally fragile. They're both completely useless. Beginning to think it might not be easier to have one of them killed."

"You don't mean that." Sam slapped his arm, gently, and rested his head on Gabriel's shoulder.

"Might."

"You wouldn't."

"Might."

"You couldn't."

Gabriel just raised his eyebrows.

"I have connections."

Worryingly, Sam didn't doubt it. He turned his head, pressing his lips to the edge of Gabriel's shoulder.

"They'll figure it out. They love each other; they just can't face up to it yet."

"Why not?" Gabriel let his head rest on top of Sam's, their hands finding each other in the mess of sheets between them. "I mean, yeah, they've both got family issues, but so have we and we're doing fine."

"Well then, maybe they don't love each other after all." Sam shrugged, his fingers tracing circles on the back of Gabriel's hand. Gabriel laughed.

"We know that's not true."

Sam shrugged, raising Gabriel's hand to his lips, gently kissing his knuckles.

"I just…" Gabriel was still staring at nothing in particular, although occasional glances towards Sam made him seem slightly more with it. "It would be a lot easier if they would just let themselves be happy."

"Dean's not exactly the kind of man who lets himself fall into anything. He never has been."

"Trust Castiel." Gabriel sighed. "One of the most exuberant, emotional, hooched-up professions in the world, he has to fall in love with the one joe who's as psychologically constipated as he is."

"Maybe that's why they love each other." Sam reached up, his hand cupping the further side of Gabriel's jaw, gently turning him to make eye contact. "Maybe they need to help each other out."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, his eyes softening as the brooding clouds slipped away. Gabriel eased into a smile which Sam was more comfortable with, more familiar with. He had delighted in finding this new, deeper side to his lover. Yes, he had been attracted by the brash attitude and wicked sense of humour, but as he saw more and more of Gabriel, he found himself being surprised by how much he cared… how personal everything was. Even the business of their brothers.

"Thanks, baby-grand. For a minute there, I'd started thinking."

Sam smiled, and pressed a kiss to his lover's lips, they held it for a moment, not yearning or asking for anything more or less, just capturing their island of time, and reinforcing each other.

"_I'm here, and that isn't going to change."_

When they finally parted, Sam rolled over to switch off his bedside light. Gabriel sighed, and shuffled lower against the pillows.

"I suppose we'll find out, come one o clock tomorrow. I just… I want to yell at someone; I feel like I should be yelling at someone."

Sam laughed as he settled down next to Gabriel, their eyes locked on each other as their hands and ankles entwined.

"Yelling will not help the situation. We're just going to have to wait until they decide what they're doing."  
>"Oh God, it will never end." Gabriel groaned melodramatically as he hugged himself to Sam's chest. "I suppose we should sleep, so we'll be up early and have everything in order before catching the train."<p>

"We should."

Sam closed his eyes, pressing a light kiss to his lover's forehead. He sighed deeply as a wave of tiredness crashed down on him. Today had not gone as planned and tomorrow... tomorrow, it was safer not to plan. If Dean decided to stop beating his gums and actually do something, they would all go back home together. If not… then the wouldn't. That was as much as anyone had dared to plan.

With a sudden rustle of sheets, Sam felt a surprising (if not unfamiliar) sensation between his legs.

"That is not getting to sleep, Gabriel."

"But…"

"No way, mac. Too tired, bank's closed."

"It'll be a sure fire way to stop me from being nasty tomorrow…"

"Goodnight."

Gabriel sighed, and settled for a goodnight kiss instead, clearly tired himself if he wasn't putting up much of a fight. They lay, still and silent, knowing that Castiel was in the guest room, also completely failing to get to sleep.

(-*-)

_15__th__ September, 1928_

Three sets of eyes stared across the platform from their train carriage. The station was tall and spacious, pigeons cooing in the rafters and crowds of people rushing to and fro, tracking down the designated booths that they may take their advice and pay their dues. This temple to travel was bustling with the lunch time rush, and Gabriel was glad they had gotten to their train early. Sam was glad they had gotten there at all, and made a mental note that he would never catch a train into or out of New York ever again.

Castiel didn't seem to be glad of anything.

Gabriel cleared his throat, bored of watching crowds of people who definitely weren't Dean Winchester.

"It's early yet. The train doesn't leave for another ten minutes."

"I know."

"You want me to go and get you something from the buffet car?" Sam smiled, awkward as ever. Castiel didn't look away from the window.

"No."

"Just…" Sam continued to look uncomfortable. "You didn't eat breakfast either; I thought you might be hungry."

"I'm swell, thank you."

Sam and Gabriel exchanged glances, but Castiel didn't turn away from the window.

"You know, we could still see if Balthazar wants to come back with us. I know he was set on staying here for a while, but we're going to need a musician for Rachael's play."

"Mm."

Castiel continued to stare out of the window. He had said little to nothing since he woke up, and what nervous energy he'd had that morning had slowly dissipated, taking him from irritable, sharp responses to quiet, murmured words. Now, all that was left was Castiel the sad and wilting, scanning crowds of people in the hopes that one of them might be the man he'd come to find.

Gabriel felt sorry for him. Hideously, heartbreakingly sorry, but he knew there was nothing he could do. If it hadn't been Dean, it probably would have been someone else, because this was what Castiel did. He found a person, or a place, or a thing, and he dedicated all his time and effort to that person or place or thing. He needed something to focus on, because for some reason, the idea of focusing on himself had never occurred.

Of course, when he found that person or place or thing, he would take care of himself, because then he had a reason to continue. Gabriel sighed, lightly squeezing Sam's hand. Castiel had gotten better. He had begun to learn, to see how he was coping poorly. Gabriel supposed this was one last trial, to see whether or not his brother could finally learn to be content with simply looking out for his own needs.

Sam just stared at Castiel, amazed and slightly awed at how one person could be so whole-heartedly devoted, and how easily that could be a bad thing. He squeezed Gabriel's hand back, not really sure what else he could do or say.

"Well… I could eat." Gabriel stood, sliding open the carriage door. "Do you mind if we...?"

"I'm lonely, Gabriel, I'm not suicidal." Castiel rested his head against the glass of the window, his gaze falling to the edge of the platform. "But yes, I will be fine if you and Sam choose to excuse yourself from my company for a while. I can fully understand it."

There was a pause. Castiel felt a hand gently clapping his shoulder.

"We love you, Castiel. We'll get right on Rachael's play as soon as we get home."

"I'd like that."

"Alright. C'mon, Sammy. Let's ankle."

Castiel closed his eyes, listening as the carriage door closed behind them.

He wasn't coming.

A small, shameful part of him was oddly glad. He was barely fit to look after himself, let alone look after someone else, and the same could be said for Dean. He couldn't bear the thought of disappointing or hurting Dean, and so perhaps it was better that they never tried. Except…

Except hadn't that brief, glorious stretch of time been the happiest of his life?

Hadn't he been much more capable, much more energetic, and much more adjusted when he had Dean to focus on?

Dean had become a reason to do well, a reason to cope. Was it healthy? No, but he couldn't help it. So they were each other's crutches, at least they had managed to support each other at all.

Not that it mattered, now.

So this was love. For the first time in his life, Castiel had truly loved, both physically and emotionally. He understood now the books he had read, the music he had heard, the plays he had seen… they all made a little more sense. Love had just been a word, before, which he vaguely understood. He loved his family. He loved his apartment. He loved the cakes from Jerrards.

But this was new, this was the kind of love Romeo and Juliet died for, the kind of love that had Jane Eyre going back to Mr Rochester. The kind of love that had Bessie Smith singing her mournful blues.

Frankly, Castiel thought, they could keep it. It was a sickening emotion. Horrible, terrifying and powerful, it was a poison which could turn you into a monster at any moment.

But it was beautiful. It was joyful, peaceful and relieved. It was seeing every single flaw in a person, every reason to want them out of your life, and still wanting to hold their hand anyway. He could fully appreciate that Dean wasn't coming. Dean had as much as told him he'd never really been in love before, and Castiel would not blame anyone for running away from such an invincible, undefeatable monster. He was sad, of course he was. He felt like his heart had been torn out and thrown onto the tracks, and he knew the moment the train started to pull away, it would be crushed, torn and left in the dirt. But, God Almighty, he knew he couldn't blame him.

It wasn't like they could get married or have kids.

They would be rich, Castiel supposed, and as long as they kept to their circle of friends and kept their private lives private, they wouldn't be hounded by any ridiculous laws. Although, Castiel supposed, if it was good enough for Oscar Wilde…

And had Dean ever mentioned wanting to get married or have children? For that matter, had Castiel? He'd never cared much about a family of his own when he had presumed he was any regular joe, why would it change now? Maybe he'd want one, in a few years or so. Right now, he didn't think he could imagine what would happen once they got off the train; here was no point straining his mind into the far flung future.

Through the glass, over the dull rush as the train prepared itself for the journey ahead, the guard's whistle sounded.

All aboard, it signalled. Castiel sighed.

A good fly-man never misses his cue.

He thought it a shame that life was not so endowed with a sense of humour as to make any parallels between love and the theatre… none that he could spot, anyway, none that he felt really applied to him.

He rather more saw love as the act of standing on a cliff edge, staring down at the rocks below. Any sane man would back away, would realise life is easier lived with both feet on solid ground. But everyone has a silly turn, once in a while. Everyone sees how close to the edge they can go.

But when you get there, what then? You stand, staring your commitment in the face. If you back down, no one will think less of you, but somehow you can't drag yourself away from the adrenaline buzz, the dizzying rush of standing so near something that could destroy you. You look down onto those rocks and you realise that, if you make that commitment, you have two options.

You can fall, or fly.

There was a sharp tap on the carriage door, and Castiel heard it open slightly. Roused from his thoughts, he hummed acknowledgement, but didn't move.

"Uh, excuse me, but… is this seat taken?"


	23. Chapter 23

_1__st__ October, 1928_

The stage of the C.P was busy with the small group of hopeful actors, no more than twelve of them, as they filed into their seats across the back of the stage. From his place in the stalls, Crowley consulted his list.

"Oh goody…" He rolled his eyes, before taking a puff on his cigar. "A bunch of unknowns who all want to be leading lady. I can barely contain my excitement."

"It could be worse." Gabriel shrugged. "They could be unknowns who didn't want to be leading lady; then we'd be really stuck." He smirked at Crowley's exasperated sigh, before returning his attention to the stage. They'd shut down the theatre for a while, hoping to reopen with Rachael's play. They had decided to take the production slowly on this one, given that everyone had lives and most had second jobs to keep up. Today, however, was the casting.

"Hey." Sam cleared his throat, flapping aside Crowley's cigar smoke. "Does number five look familiar to you?"

"Well, well…" Crowley's eyes glinted with malice. "Number five, could you step forward, please?"

The sullen, scowling actress stepped forward reluctantly, before fixing them with her largest, most insincere smile.

"Hello, Mr Crowley! I'm back!"

"Yes you are, you treacherous moll." Crowley reclined as much as the chair would allow, crossing one leg over the other. Gabriel, conversely, leant forward, resting his elbows on the back of the seat in front of him. Both of them watched her with almost territorial glares.

"Meg! Dear old Meg, it's been so long." Crowley gave a slow, hollow grin, enjoying watching the turncoat squirm. "Did New York not work out for you?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean." Meg's eyes were steely, even if her smile didn't falter. "Can't a gal come back to one of the finest up-and-coming theatres in the country? I had a lot of fun here, I heard you were looking for actresses…"

"And you'd gotten bored of whoring yourself around Broadway." Crowley finished, his eyes glinting maliciously. "No."

"I'm sorry?"

"I'm sure you are," Gabriel cut in, smirking, "but you're also far too tall. And your look is all wrong, the lead in this is feminine, graceful, bright, caring… I'm sorry Meg, you're all wrong for the part. You may leave."

"What?" Meg's cheeks flushed with anger. "You can't… that's… I'm…"

"Thank you." Crowley had already crumpled up her resume and thrown it over his shoulder. "The door's just over there, offstage to your right."

Meg blustered a bit more, before making a weird, screechy huff noise and storming off. Gabriel and Crowley snickered to themselves.

"You're both evil." Sam shook his head, despairing.

"_I'm_ serving out justice." Gabriel intoned, looking on Sam with an expression that could almost be offended if he wasn't fighting back another wicked smirk. "Giving her exactly what she deserves."

"Yes." Crowley agreed, before turning back to the (now slightly terrified) remaining actresses. "I, on the other hand, am just a very cruel man. Number one, could you step forward, please?"

Sam shook his head again, because it wasn't like he could do anything else. He stood up, and started shuffling out of the row.

"Where are you going?" Gabriel seemed to have a sixth sense for Sam trying to sneak off now, which had gotten mildly irritating. Not that Sam didn't want Gabriel to know where he was, but he'd had his father, his brother and now Gabriel all convinced at some point or another that he needed looking after. It was getting old.

"I'm A.S.M, I'm not needed for casting." He grinned. "Going backstage."

"Well, hurry back." Gabriel pouted. "I can't be held responsible for my actions if you leave me alone with this pill." He jerked his thumb towards Crowley, who ignored him.

Sam rolled his eyes and walked down to the stage, hopping up behind the curtain. He didn't listen to the actress as she launched into her audition monologue because hey, all he had to do was tell them where to be and when to be there. He didn't have to know how good they were.

He pulled himself up the ladder to the fly gallery, seeing the little blue light spread across the corner. Eventually, he got to gallery level, and stood up.

"Still painting?" He smiled, looking over at Castiel, who had rolled up his shirt sleeves as he brushed dark strokes onto the panel of white wall.

"I thought I may as well finish it today, so that it will be done by the time rehearsals begin." He stepped back slightly, looking a little awkward as Sam appraised the mural.

"It's good. It'll look great when it's finished."

"Thank you."

"Did you hear what just happened? With Meg?"

Castiel's mouth slowly twitched into a rueful smile, before he regained a more neutral composure.

"I'm sure it was wrong of me to take so much pleasure in it." He turned back to his painting. "I just wish Dean had been here."

(-*-)

When Castiel had moved out of his apartment building, he had not, thankfully, sold the apartment. On his return from New York, he had known that the last place he wanted to live was the family home. It had taken them days to move in all the boxes, but he was finally back where he belonged.

Castiel let himself into his apartment quietly, hanging his coat up on the rack and placing the case that held his art supplies by the door. He kicked off his shoes and wandered through to the kitchen, wondering what he would make for dinner.

(-*-)

_14__th__ September, 1928_

_(revisited)_

Dean stared up at the ceiling.

Half of his brain demanded to know just who he thought he was fooling, because it was going to make damn sure he wasn't sleeping tonight. No, no, there was far too much to think about.

He had been told in no uncertain terms that if he wasn't on that train at one, Castiel didn't want to hear from him again. It was ridiculous; Castiel was being ridiculous. There was a lot to sort through and think over; it wasn't all as simple as that.

For instance, where would he stay? The cabin had been sold, and Sam was living with Gabriel now. Dean had no real problems with that, as such; his brother was big enough to make his own mistakes, but that didn't mean Dean would share a house with the two of them. Ellen had moved in with Mr Singer, and Dean had no doubt they'd let him stay, but he didn't want to encroach on them.

He very actively didn't think about the possibility of moving in with Castiel.

If he chose to go back at all. Which he would be within his rights not to.

What about work? Sure, he was out of work now, and he had no obligation to take up the job when the writer finally got his act together… but… little work on Broadway beat steady work at the C.P, right?

Right?

Sighing, Dean turned over on the bed, in the vain hope that changing sides would do anything to make him more comfortable or likely to sleep. It didn't.

He could trick himself, lie to himself… he could pretend it wasn't simple, but he knew it was.

If he didn't love Castiel, if he could imagine living without the man who had haunted him night and day since he left, then he shouldn't get on the train.

If he could imagine forgetting all about the man who he liked to pretend he was having a conversation with, who he wrote letters to that he never sent, then he had no reason to get on the train.

He could try and lie that there were other, more complicated, more tangible factors, but he knew it all came down to a simple decision.

Did he want to be a lonely, unemployed Production Manager in New York? Did he want to go back to futzing around and not caring about anyone, or did he want to go back home, to have one last try with a man he really cared about?

It was almost laughably simple when he boiled it all down.

Did he want to be a Production Manager in a town where no one knew him, or did he want to go back home, and be a fly man?

(-*-)

_15__th__ September, 1928_

_(revisited)_

Castiel blinked, slowly looking up at the stranger. No, he supposed, as they pulled out of the station, the train already heaving itself forward and gathering momentum. It looked like the seat was free.

(-*-)

_1__st__ October, 1928_

_(revisited)_

Castiel sat alone at the lounge table, eating something boring he had thrown together. Lamb cutlets and vegetables, while nice, were hardly anything to write home about. The radio played softly in the background, so softly that it didn't mask the sound of the door opening and closing, as the opener seemed to hope.

"You're late." Castiel stated, continuing to eat.

"I know, I'm sorry…"

"This better not be a habit of yours." Castiel allowed himself a small smile as he teased the other man, who he could hear struggling with his coat and shoes.

"Ha, my sides, how they split. Hey, Cas, I have a suggestion for you." Dean entered the lounge, a sarcastic scowl on his face. "When you don't tell a guy what train carriage you're in, it's not his fault if he has to traipse up and down the whole damn train looking for you."

Castiel's lips twitched into a smile, and he was overjoyed to see Dean lose the ability to scowl. He wandered over, rested his hands on Castiel's shoulders, and leant down to kiss his cheek.

"Carpentry is hard work; it's not my fault if it takes ages."

"I know." Castiel smiled, reaching up to knot his fingers behind Dean's head, effectively trapping them both together.

"If anyone's allowed to be annoyed about the whole train thing, it's me." Dean mumbled into Castiel's cheek, his breath ticking. "You gave up my seat to a perfect stranger. What if he'd wooed you away from me before I'd gotten down to that end of the train?"

Castiel laughed, bringing his hands down so he could turn to face Dean.

"I'd never be happy with anyone else." He smiled, his words whispered over Dean's lips. One year previous to this, neither man would have thought it possible that they could have smiled as blissfully as they did when their lips met, forming a strong, happy, confident promise between them.

When they parted, Dean pressed a quick kiss to Castiel's jaw before standing up.

"So where's mine?"

"In the oven." Castiel smiled, as Dean happily darted off to the kitchen.

Dean had been late, yes. And reluctant. But he had caught the train in the end, and now they had both promised to take each other a lot more seriously. Castiel stood as Dean wandered back in with his own plate, intent on turning the volume up on the radio a little.

Together, Castiel thought, they could hold each other up. Together, they could run the show. And, as Castiel returned to his seat and regaled Dean with the story of Meg's failed audition, he had a feeling that this time, they'd do it right.

(-*-)

_December 4__th__, 1928_

The Hollman party filled two boxes. All the better for seeing the twenty-five year old theatre, as far as Castiel was concerned.

"Cas." Dean laughed, nudging his partner. "The stage is that way."

"Yes, but the curtains haven't opened yet, and they're nowhere near as interesting as the chandelier."

"Honestly." Gabriel rolled his eyes, waving at Rachael in the next box. "Bring him all the way out here to watch a play for a change, and he's still fussing over the architecture."

"Leave him alone." Sam smiled, settling back in his chair. "You know that as soon as the show starts, you won't pipe down about how we did it better."

"That's true." Gabriel conceded, flicking through his programme. "Although I have to say, I've been hearing good things about the actress they put in Meg's part… Ruth Etting..."

"Hey." Dean leant in to Castiel, smiling as he whispered. "The C.P's darb compared to this place; you shouldn't bother looking."

"But…" Castiel gazed around the space. "It's beautiful."

"It's generic." Dean grinned. "I've been in a lot of theatres, and I've only seen one that's got a mural of two winged men, standing on a cliff edge and smiling."

"Ah." Castiel smiled, slipping his hand into Dean's. "But that's a secret."

"Then stop talking about it." Balthazar snapped from the next box. Rachael hit Balthazar on the knee.

"Where'd you even get the idea to paint it like that, anyway?" Dean smiled. Castiel shrugged.

"It just... seemed right."

Balthazar, bitter after being shot down by the girl who sold the programmes, pulled a disgusted face as Castiel and Dean gazed at each other.

"Lovely. Now if you two goofs would mind buttoning your lips, the show's starting."

Castiel smiled, as the Hollman party from the C.P theatre clapped with the rest of the audience. As soon as the show begun, his hand slipped back into Deans, and he supposed Balthazar was right.

The show was only just beginning.


End file.
